


The B-Sides

by WeAreTheCyclones



Series: Play Crack the Sky [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anxiety, Depression, Drug Abuse, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-27 21:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16710451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheCyclones/pseuds/WeAreTheCyclones
Summary: A collection of tumblr ficlets in the PCTS 'verse, all in one spot safe from the whims of tumblr. :)





	1. August 4, 2010

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing these in as close to chronological order as I can manage. I'm also not really editing these so quality VARIES. If there is some inconsistency with PCTS or Sowing Season, that's just the way the cookie crumbles I'm afraid. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folded into Sowing Season

The fluorescent lighting hurts his eyes as he stands at the end of the line at the register. Everyone in front of him is just a lonely traveler filling their gas tank. Derek focuses on them so he doesn’t have to focus on his own nerves. He’s in a gas station in a town he’s never been in before and he’s still scared of running into someone who recognizes him. The man two people in front of them buys a giant can of Red Bull and M&Ms. The woman in front of him slaps down a National Enquirer beside her thermos of stale-smelling coffee.

“And twenty on five,” she says, voice rough.

The sole night employee nods. “Where you headed?” he asks.

“Bakersfield.”

“What’s in Bakersfield?”

She swipes her credit card and huffs a little laugh. “A divorce hearing.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be, that man’s a son of a bitch, I’m glad to be rid of him.”

He chuckles, says something about knowing how that is and hands over her receipt. Derek’s heart leaps up into his throat. He has nothing in his hands to set down. Nothing for the cashier to scan.

“What’ll it be, kid?” the cashier asks.

“Uh,” Derek utters, eyes sweeping the now mostly empty store. The woman before him in line is busying herself with sugar packets and creamer not too far away. “Ten on four and um…” The cashier lifts an eyebrow. “A pack of condoms.”

The cashier looks behind him at the shelf and looks back. “Which ones?”

“I um…”

Okay, fine. Let the record show that Derek had never bought condoms on his own. Laura had thrown a massive box at him once before running out of his room when he started dating his first girlfriend. And that had lasted for awhile, until the expiration date passed… And it’s easy to grab a handful in the nurse’s office when no one is looking…

Derek points at a box and the guy grabs it, rings it up and puts it in a paper bag. “First time?” the woman asks, closer to him than she had been just a second ago.

“Huh?”

“You just seem nervous.”

“I am nervous,” Derek mumbles.

“Nerves are healthy, nerves prevent teenage pregnancy,” she says with a kind laugh.

“Well, that’s not really an issue here…” he says before he can think better of it.

“Oh.”

His cheeks are burning as he pays and she’s hesitating wordlessly near him. He turns back to her while his receipt is printing and he can feel the curious cashier’s eyes on them. “I drove here from Beacon Hills just so this wouldn’t get back to my mom or my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“And these aren’t for her.”

“No.”

She makes a soft sound of understanding and looks at him with soft eyes. “Honey, you be careful with yourself.”

“I’m trying.”

“Don’t hurt that girl, that’s not fair. But you be safe and you have a good time with that boy.”

“I love him,” Derek blurts, wringing the paper bag in his hands.

The cashier “aw”s and the woman chuckles warmly. “Then you’re in for a treat. Drive safe, baby.”

“You too, take care.” She gives him a motherly smile and a wave over her shoulder as she heads out.

“You’ve never done it with a guy before, have you?” the cashier asks. “You give off that straight jock vibe.”

Derek rolls his eyes but finds himself answering anyway. “No, I haven’t.”

The cashier nods contemplatively. “Lube,” he says sagely.

Derek cracks a smile. “That’s what he said too.”

“Why the girlfriend, man? If you love him and you’re about to get down with him, why don’t you just… date him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Teenagers,” he sighs, shaking his head. Derek doesn’t point out that he’s probably hardly older than a teenager himself. Derek laughs a little and thanks him and heads for the door. “Hey, be safe, have fun,” he calls after him. Derek waves appreciatively before the door swings shut.


	2. February 2011

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folded into Sowing Season

So he sits in his car outside of the Stilinski home, eyes trained on the Sheriff’s cruiser. His windshield wipers scrape and swish and scrape and swish and his hazards click and the radio is playing nothing but shit on every channel. And he waits.

The door swings open and closed and the Sheriff plods right past his cruiser and up to Derek’s passenger side window. He knocks on the glass until Derek rolls the window down.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Derek greets, nodding.

“Derek,” he says with a nod. “Any reason you’re casing my home?”

“Uh.”

“Storm’s blowing through, I suggest you stay off the roads.” It’s a warning. It’s a thinly veiled “I hope you and Stiles aren’t planning on going out tonight.”

“I was just… coming to see if Stiles… was doing the math homework?”

He rolls his eyes. “He’s in the kitchen, door’s unlocked.” He stands and waves and heads to the cruiser. Derek waits until the taillights have disappeared around the corner before he gets out of his car.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks from the porch. He must have heard Derek’s car door…

“Trying to talk to you. You avoided me all day.”

Stiles hops down the stairs and blocks Derek from getting any closer to the house.

“Because you were an asshole at Jackson’s.”

“All I remember is you dropping me off half a mile away from my house, so…”

“Oh good. Hopefully you had a very sobering walk.”

“So what’d I fucking do?” Derek asks, voice rising. He furiously wipes rainwater off of his face and it’s instantly back. The rain must be picking up.

“You got drunk. You made Paige cry.”

Now that he thinks about it, Paige hadn’t been very warm at school…

“How?”

“You were being an asshole. She kept trying to get you to stop drinking and you told her to get off your dick so she went home crying.”

Derek cringes. “I’ll talk to her. But why are you mad at me?”

Stiles slicks his wet hair away from his forehead and avoids eye contact. “You tried to kiss me.”

Derek draws a blank.

“In front of everyone.”

Fuck. “Everyone… everyone? As in… everyone?” Fuck fuck.

“Yeah, as in Jackson, Danny, that girl from physics. Half the lacrosse team. Lydia. Scott. Fucking Greenberg. Paige’s band geek friends.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry, you’re safe and fucking sound. You made sure of that.”

“Huh?”

“You told the crowd at large that you were trying to do me a favor,” Stiles answers with a cruel smirk, crossing his arms over his chest, shivering. He’s getting wetter and wetter and showing no signs of letting Derek into the house…

Derek doesn’t know what to say.

“You’re a piece of shit sometimes, you know that,” Stiles continues. “A genuine asshole.”

“I’m sorry.”

Stiles barks out a laugh. “You’re sorry?”

“Well, yeah,” Derek replies, frustrated. “I was drunk, what the fuck am I supposed to do about it now?”

“You’re supposed to fucking listen to your girlfriend when she tells you to cool it! And you’re supposed to remember you have one! And you’re supposed to not treat me like some… desperate little gay kid in front of all your old lacrosse friends and all of my friends!”

“Well, I’m sorry!” Derek yells back.

“Do you really think you’re doing me a favor?”

“No.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah, I am.” Derek is freezing cold, his sweater soaked through to his skin. His heart hammers in his chest, his hands shake.

“Oh, so your self-preservation runs so fucking deep that even when you’re drunk, you can—“

Derek takes one step forward and grabs Stiles’ face and pulls him into a kiss to cut him off. He expects it to be some romantic thing, some… chick flick moment. Instead, Stiles pounds his fist into Derek’s chest and tears himself away. “What the fuck is your problem?” Stiles asks, shoving him. Derek’s foot sinks into a puddle and he curses.

“I thought…”

“You thought we’re in an episode of One Tree Hill or something?” Stiles yells.

“I… no… One Tree Hill, really?”

“Shut up!” He balls his hands up in his hair and tugs, shoulders drawn tight with fury. “We’re done, we’re done. I can’t handle you anymore.”

“No,” Derek blurts out, stepping forward. Water squishes around in between his toes.

“No?” Stiles asks, laughing weakly. “Not up to you, buddy.”

“No one thinks you’re some desperate gay kid.”

“Who cares? That’s not the fucking point, the point is that you could have ruined everything for us!”

“You still drove me home.”

“Of fucking course I did, idiot.”

“You care about me. We’re not done.”

Stiles glares at him, his shivering even more pronounced. The wind is picking up in the canopy of the trees, the rain bears down on them in sheets.

“I’m sorry, I really am,” Derek says, voice raised to be heard over the wind. He considers turning around and running, undignified, back to the shelter of his car, but Stiles has him glued to the spot.

“Okay,” he says, sounding furious but accepting.

And Derek guesses that’s as good as it’s going to get. “Okay, well… I’m… going to go.” He points with his thumb over his shoulder toward his car.

Stiles rolls his eyes and grabs Derek by the wrist and pulls him in. “Don’t be stupid,” he grumbles before kissing him.

And Derek’s still not over this. His mouth is warm, heat radiates through Derek’s body starting from his lips. He grabs Stiles by the waist and pulls him flush against him, seeking out his body heat through sopping T-shirts. His body is thin and strong against him and fuck Derek is so glad he didn’t actually kiss him in front of everyone, he wouldn’t have been able to stop. He never wants to stop.

Thunder claps overhead and Stiles pulls away, their lips parting wetly. “Fuck that, come inside,” he says, grabbing Derek’s hand and running.


	3. May 2011 - Prom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one basically got folded into Sowing Season, YAWN. :P

“There’s a band playing at the Horseshoe on Saturday, they’re supposed to be pretty cool,” Stiles tells Derek, pulling his pants on at the side of Derek’s bed. “We should go.”

Derek laughs at him. “Cute.”

“Huh?”

“Prom’s on Saturday.”

“Ugh, right. And you’re going with Paige.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll hook you up with a flask full of whatever you want for your troubles,” Stiles suggests. He wiggles his eyebrows at Derek over his shoulder. He is still lying naked in bed. Stiles wishes he didn’t have to go.

Derek shrugs. “It should be fun.”

“Gross.”

“Lydia’s going.”

“Of course she is.”

“Scott is too.”

“Obviously.”

“So why aren’t you?”

He shrugs. “Why would I?”

Derek lets out a frustrated sigh and finally sits up and stretches. “You’re going to be late for cross-country.”

Stiles flips him off, picks up his bag, narrowly avoids any Hale family members and leaves.

**

“Save me, please,” is what the text from Derek says, but what does it really mean. Stiles is at the Horseshoe and that cool band is about to start and it had been way harder getting in here with his fake ID without Derek’s five o’clock shadow standing beside him.

“Let me guess, someone else is wearing the same dress as you?”

Before he can even get his phone back into his pocket, Derek responds. “No, literally, please come get me.”

“What about Paige?”

“Just come. Please?”

So he leaves the bar and the bouncer looks at him suspiciously. He pulls up to the hotel BHHS had rented out for the occasion and pulls up in front of a surly Derek Hale.

“What happened?” Stiles asks.

“I think we’re going to break up soon.”

Stiles doesn’t react.

“We just… argued the entire time. I threatened to leave and she said to call you and then she went off with her friends.”

Stiles grimaces for him. “Ouch, sorry.”

They drive for a few minutes in silence before Stiles realizes he has no idea where he’s headed. “So… do you just want to go home?”

“God, no. They made us take four million prom pictures, I really doubt they want to see me coming back early with you.”

Point taken. “So where to?”

Derek undoes his tie and tosses it into the back seat, unbuttons the top few buttons of his dress shirt and pulls open Stiles’ glove compartment.

“What are you looking for?”

“Got any weed?”

“I am the son of law enforcement, why on earth would I keep weed in my car on prom night? Do you know how many sobriety check points there are out there? It’s at home.”

“Is your dad working?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I guess that’s where we’re going.”

Up in Stiles’ room, Derek strips down to his undershirt and boxers. Stiles isn’t complaining.

“Are you upset?” Stiles asks, not looking up from his bowl-packing duties.

“About what?”

“Paige,” Stiles says slowly. He hears his bed creak and finally looks behind him. Derek is sprawled across his bed, looking at him with a dark suggestion on his face. “Yes or no?” Stiles presses.

“No.”

Derek’s hand is low on his stomach, his pinkie dipping under his waistband… Stiles gets up and sits beside him on the bed, nudges him until he sits up, and hands him the pretty little glass pipe. “First hit for lover boy,” he says. Derek rolls his eyes and waves it away. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Derek takes the pipe and lighter and sets them down on Stiles’ bedside table. When he turns back to Stiles, he grabs Stiles’ face and pulls him into a kiss that’s all tongue and want and fuck Stiles is here for this.

“You taste like beer, when’d you have beer?” Derek asks, pulling away to look at him.

“At the Horseshoe. I was there for that band. Remember?”

“Shit, I pulled you away from that, didn’t I?”

“Mmhmm,” Stiles murmurs, sealing his mouth against Derek’s neck.

“I’m sorry.”

“This is better,” Stiles says. He shoves at Derek until he’s on his back underneath him. He slips his hand through the opening of Derek’s boxers to grasp his half-hard cock for emphasis. Derek groans and pulls Stiles back into an open-mouthed kiss. He wants him naked. 

Derek ruts up into his hand but that’s now how he wants to get him off. Stiles straddles him and sits up so he can pull his shirt off. Derek lifts himself up just enough to get his undershirt over his head and tosses it onto the floor. 

“Is this better than prom?” Stiles asks. He’s grinding against Derek and he’s desperate to get out of his jeans but he needs the contact, it’s a real problem…

“Yeah,” Derek says breathlessly, trying to shove Stiles’ pants off his hips.


	4. 2012 - Madison Square Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr Post](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/103617220479/hey-so-remember-this-madison-square-garden-sold)

Derek’s chest is flat against his back, his hands securely on Stiles’ hips. The crowd jostles them back and forth and Stiles is glad Boyd is here to keep an eye on Lydia because otherwise she would be lost to the tide of people in no time. Lydia is  _the worst_ at sticking with the group at shows. Stiles stands on the tips of his toes to catch a glimpse of her messy red hair a few rows of shoulders away. Scott is with her too, casting leary glances at the guy dancing right behind her.

“She’s fine,” Derek says directly into Stiles’ ear, sending chills up and down his spine.

His fingers dig into Stiles’ hips a little more and his hot breath ghosts across his sweaty neck. Stiles leans into him, wiggling his ass against Derek’s crotch. He smirks when the breath hitches.

“Let’s go,” Derek says, confirming what Stiles had been suspecting…

“Are you trying to tell me you’re not into this?” Stiles asks, arching his back so he can get his mouth as close to Derek’s ear as his bones will allow.

“I’m more into the idea of fucking you in a bathroom stall,” Derek says back and it’s a good thing his hands are firm on Stiles’ hips because Stiles’ knees weaken just a tad.

There’s another surge of the crowd that presses Stiles even harder back against Derek and the outline of his erection is even more apparent than it had been before. Derek trails one hand up Stiles’ shirt to rest on his sweaty waist before breaking away to lead him out. Stiles spares on last glance toward Scott, Lydia and Boyd to make sure they aren’t looking and then he lets Derek drag him through the crowd.

They slip out past the security guards, who eye their VIP laminates with disinterest.  Derek leads them down a series of mostly empty hallways and seems to know when to flash his laminate to get into even emptier places. He zeroes in on a door and yanks it open revealing a shining, posh men’s restroom.  The stall walls extend all the way to the ceiling like their own separate little rooms and Derek leads them into the handicapped one at the far end.

“My sincerest thanks to the label,” Stiles says with an unbelieving laugh. Derek smirks and shoves him against the cool wall and kisses him breathless.

Stiles’ hand comes up and he hooks a finger in the Madison Square Garden lanyard around his neck. With Derek’s hot body against his very sweaty body, in the ringing quiet of the bathroom, Stiles realizes how tipsy he really is.

“Hmmm,” he murmurs, cut off when Derek coaxes his mouth open. Stiles could die like this— in a fancy bathroom with Derek’s tongue in his mouth…  Or anywhere with Derek’s tongue in his mouth, really. But it’d be a shame to die now, on the brink of what might be their big break and before the clothes start coming off…

Derek’s hands slide heavily from Stiles’ neck down his chest and right for the button on his jeans. Stiles lets go of the lanyard to help out. He is nothing if not a team player. He gets Derek’s pants undone and shoves them just slightly lower on his hips, fingers catching in the tight fabric of his boxer briefs. Derek struggles with Stiles’ zipper and curses about tight pants right up until the point he realizes Stiles isn’t wearing anything underneath.

Derek’s lips slide wetly off of his mouth and he whimpers against Stiles’ neck instead, pressing their bodies even closer together.

This is already the highlight of the trip and they aren’t even totally naked.  Touring makes it hard to actually get totally naked with a person, surprisingly enough. But for now, what they had could perfectly be summed up in this moment: stolen moments and sex that is great partly because it’s sneaky and partly because it’s… them. And they love each other. And that’s cute. It’s adorable. And it’s hot as fuck to sneak around.

Derek’s been trying to get Stiles’ pants off his hips for awhile to no avail when he steps away (Stiles slides down the wall and almost topples over from the sudden lack of support) and looks at Stiles with intensity.

“Take your pants off.”

“Gave up?” Stiles asks, instantly moving to do as he’s told.

“They’re too fucking tight.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with that up until now,” Stiles flirts, making a show of slowly revealing more and more skin. Derek watches avidly.

“They’re fine until I want them off you and then I have a problem.”

Stiles can only maintain the sexy strip tease for so long until the fabric bunches around his knees and he has to do an elaborate movement to hook the hem under his opposite heel to yank himself free. Okay, so the pants are a little too tight but his ass looks fantastic in them. Derek catches him when he totters over and backs him up against the wall. Before Stiles’ bare ass can hit cold tile, Derek grabs one leg to hook around his hips and Stiles follows the cue for the other leg too. So this is how it was going down. Derek presses his body forward to keep Stiles up, Stiles wraps his arms around his neck and Derek pulls his dick out, reaches for his wallet for the packet of lube and condom he’s constantly replacing. It’s all very romantic. Stiles would kiss him if he didn’t have the foil packets in his mouth.

Derek hitches him up further and tears open the condom with his teeth and rolls it on, tears the lube open and slathers it on Stiles and himself before he really gets to the careful ministrations of opening him up.

Stiles bites his bottom lip through a smile, swallows down a needy moan and squeezes his eyes shut through Derek’s clumsy preparations. Then with little warning, Derek pushes into him with a low grunt and Stiles hisses at how great it  _feels_. Stiles loves when Derek’s impatient and he loves when it’s quick and dirty. He loves the sting and the desperate rhythm of his body against him. Stiles fists his hands in Derek’s shirt and kisses the side of his head to give himself something to do while Derek takes the reins. Derek’s hips stutter against him, his breath ragged as he mouths at Stiles’ throat.

“I’m… I’m…” Stiles breathes, his muscles tensing as his back starts sliding down the tile.

“Already?” Derek asks, sounding smug.

“No. I’m slipping,” Stiles grits out.

So Derek slams him against the wall a little rougher and Stiles actually groans. He threads his hand through Derek’s hair and tugs, gritting his teeth as Derek fucks into him with his fingers pressing bruises into his thighs.

When Derek lifts his head to capture Stiles’ mouth in a sloppy kiss, Stiles is so totally immersed in the experience he almost doesn’t notice the door swinging open, somebody blurting out a rushed “sorry, sorry” and the door slamming shut again.

Derek pauses to adjust his grip on Stiles and hoist him back up a little and his skin drags against the freezing wall where his shirt has ridden up. When Derek starts moving again, it’s at a new angle and Stiles actually can’t help the sounds pouring out of his mouth. He throws a few “baby”s somewhere in the mix and Derek doesn’t even try to swallow down the breathy moans that inspires. He’s pressed so tight against Stiles that Stiles can’t get a hold of his dick no matter how much he wants to – the rough slide of Derek’s t-shirt and the ridges of abs beyond that layer are definitely doing it for him though.

“Dammit, Derek,” Stiles groans, trying to buck against gravity and Derek’s hold on him. Derek’s teeth sink into his jaw and his lips pull at the corners in what has to be a self-satisfied smile. “Fuck,” Stiles breathes, digging his nails into his back and tugging at his hair even harder.

Right as Stiles’ orgasm starts building up from deep in his spine somewhere, they hear the door swing open and footsteps echoing closer. Derek doesn’t stop. Stiles seals his mouth to Derek’s to keep them both from making a sound. The two men out there have booming, business-like voices. They laugh congenially about whatever the fuck they’re talking about. Derek’s movements are slower, to prevent sound, but they’re deeper and longer and Stiles is absolutely dying to cry out.

Stiles has tears forming in the corners of his eyes and Derek’s obviously loving this way too much. Stiles can’t help but picture being caught – the men out there knocking on their stall door to see if everything’s alright, the door swinging open to reveal them how they are now – Stiles pantless with his shirt rucked up to his armpits, Derek’s jeans low on his hips with his mouth on Stiles… god. Stiles’ head thumps back against the tile and he tries to breathe through how badly that idea makes his heart pound. The sinks turn on and the men are still talking and then they’re walking and then Derek suddenly picks up speed before the door even swings shut behind them.

When Stiles comes, it’s with a wanton moan straight out of porn echoing through the whole bathroom. Derek comes with a strangled breath and he almost instantly drops Stiles, all the strength sapped out of him.

“You came on my shirt,” Derek says after he’s caught his breath, looking down at himself with a satisfied little smile.

“My parting gift,” Stiles says. He steps forward enough to swipe his finger through it and then across Derek’s bottom lip. “You’re welcome.” Derek’s tongue darts out to taste and Stiles is going to save that mental image for the next time they’re alone…

Derek shakes his head with a little smile and pulls the shirt off to go rinse it in the sink while Stiles struggles back into his jeans. He revels in the phantom feeling of new bruises blooming on his thighs and hips. He feels stiff as he walks out of the stall and toward Derek. Stiff and good. Great. Perfect.

“Can’t wait to fuck you in a bed again,” Stiles says with his lips behind Derek’s ear. He wraps his arms around his middle and watches them both in the mirror. “Or bent over the bathroom sink.” He wiggles his hips against his ass as a demonstration. “So you can watch how pretty you are when you—“

The door swings open again and a janitorial cart bumps its way inside. Stiles peels himself off of Derek with nothing more than a kiss to his freckled shoulder before the custodian himself appears. Derek wrings his shirt out and gives Stiles a dark look over his shoulder for just a second before pulling his damp shirt over his head. When his face reappears, he’s smiling. Stiles beams back at him and squeezes past the cart with a nod to the custodian and Derek in a wet shirt on his heels.


	5. December 2012 - Los Angeles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meeting their idols

“Hey, great job tonight,” someone says to Stiles’ left. He sees a flash of Scott’s wide-eyed terror before he turns to thank the—

“Patrick Stump!” he blurts, his cheeks flushing.

The shorter, more famous, more talented, more impressive… Patrick fucking Stump smiles and laughs and pats Stiles on the shoulder. Stiles takes what he hopes is a discreet breath and smiles back.

“Stiles, right?” he asks, sliding into the seat next to him. Stiles’ clothes feel too tight suddenly and he’s sweating and Scott is stricken silent next to him. “And you’re Scott?” Patrick asks when he gets no confirmation from Stiles.

“Yeah, Scott McCall. Nice to meet you, man,” Scott says, sounding way cooler than Stiles expected. They shake hands over Stiles.

“You’re Patrick Stump,” Stiles tells Patrick Stump. Scott kicks him under the table. “I mean, I’m… I’m Stiles Stilinski, yeah, hi. Wow. I am… not even drunk.” He laughs nervously and accepts Patrick’s outstretched hand.

Patrick’s smile is positively gleaming and Stiles is speechless.

“You guys played great. I’m a big fan.”

Stiles is doing his best not to swoon, he really is.

“Thanks, that’s… what. Wow. That means a lot, thank you. We’re big, huge… so big… fans. Of Fall Out Boy. And you in general.”

Patrick looks a little bashful and that’s… what? “Thanks, man. You’re a great singer! I’m really impressed. And your drummer… wow. She’s insane. I’m pretty sure Pete cornered your bassist. And you—“ He points to Scott. “—Are seriously talented.”

Stiles pictures Derek, tongue-tied and sallow, staring at Pete goddamn Wentz in awe.

“You should have told us you were in the audience,” Scott tells him after thanking him profusely. Stiles is still panicking.

Patrick waves it off. “I’m just glad we happened to stop in here. I was going to see if our management could contact yours.”

“Why?” Stiles blurts out and instantly covers his face with his hand.

“Take This to Your Grave is Stiles’ Bible, don’t mind him,” Scott laughs.

Patrick laughs too. “I’m still that way with my favorite artists, it’s fine. I just know how important it is for young talent to get a little confidence boost. I genuinely think you guys are going to be really big.”

Strong hands come down on both of Stiles’ shoulders and he looks directly up into Derek’s upside down, shell-shocked face.

“Look who I ran into,” he says stiffly. Stiles looks past Patrick to see Pete Wentz leaning against the table.

“Hey man, you guys kick ass. Where’s your drummer?”

“Who’s this?” Lydia asks from the other side of Scott, drinks in hand. She lets out a yelp when she sees who it is.

“There she is,” Stiles answers.

“Man, Joe and Andy are going to be pissed,” Pete laughs. “They had to take off early. But you guys put on a great show.”

And somehow, facilitated by Scott’s calm-under-pressure thing and Pete’s ability to just… talk… this whole thing goes on for awhile. Stiles pulls his chair away from the table so Derek can slide into his lap without blocking anyone’s view and he uses him as a security blanket. Patrick gives Stiles a sweet, knowing smile about it and Stiles is oh-ver-whelmed.

“Ah, man, and you guys are fucking cute,” Pete says when he notices. “The girls love to picture you two naked together, don’t they?”

“Picture it? They draw it,” Lydia answers.

Pete laughs.

“So are you all life-long best friends? You have this chemistry that some bands would give anything for.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, we’re family. And I’ve seen you guys live, you have that too. Had. Sorry.” Right, they’re not together anymore. Stiles’ fanboy heart hurts…

Pete and Patrick exchange sneaky looks. And Stiles’ head is finally clear enough… “Wait, why are all of you in LA together?” Okay, he maybe knows a little too much about Fall Out Boy… but they hadn’t been seen with each other since their indefinite hiatus.

“Recording,” Pete says simply. He grins before holding his finger in front of his mouth and shushing. “That stays between us.”

Patrick smiles. “We can send you guys some demos if you want… As long as you promise to keep them to yourselves.”

“GOD yes,” Lydia gushes.

They exchange contact information and Stiles is pretty sure he’s dead on the inside. In the best way. Afterward, Patrick and Pete both stand.

“We should let you youngbloods enjoy the rest of your night, thanks for talking to a couple old men like us,” Pete says, leaning in to hug each of them like old friends. Stiles is buried so far under the ground…

“Thanks for coming to our show, let us know next time,” Scott says. How is he so fucking cool?

“Absolutely. Likewise,” Patrick says with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

“Please tell me you guys are going to have a massive arena tour to announce soon,” Lydia asks, arms crossed against her chest. Of course she’s on sassy terms with them already, of course.

Pete grins. “I like her. We’ll keep you posted.”

They depart with a friendly wave and the second they’re out of sight, Derek slumps against Stiles’ chest and slides to the floor. “Pete Wentz told me I was a better bassist than him,” he groans from under the table. Scott stands and shakes his whole body to dispel his nerves. Lydia finishes the rest of her drink in one long gulp.

“I think Stiles is dead, guys,” Scott says. And he’s right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I lowkey hate this one oyyy)


	6. 2012-2013: Five Places Derek and Stiles Have Sex Without Getting Caught…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the One Place they DID :)
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr Post](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/103921627564/5-places-derek-and-stiles-had-sex-and-didnt-get)

_Five Places Derek and Stiles Have Sex Without Getting Caught…_

**Couch Surfing**

Derek’s hands slide up Stiles’ thighs up to his hips, his mouth hot on Stiles’ neck. The clock on the mantle ticks out the seconds and Stiles is staring at the darkened hallway that leads back to the guest room Scott and Lydia are sharing and Scott’s cousin and his cousin’s wife and their small child…

Derek’s hard against him, his hips rocking against his thigh. Stiles bites his lip, squeezing Derek’s ribs.

“They’re all asleep,” Derek mutters.

“And if any of them get thirsty or need to go to the bathroom…” Stiles whispers back.

“It’s dark, we’ll hear them coming, et ceteraaa,” he drawls, trailing one hand across his lower stomach and curling his fingers into the elastic of his waistband.

Stiles arches up against him despite himself. Derek’s fingertips are cool against his skin, sending a shudder through Stiles.

“It’s someone else’s house, it’s weird.”

“How many blow jobs have I given you at Lydia’s house?” Derek reminds him.

And he has a good point. A good enough point that Stiles relents and spreads his legs for him, grunting when Derek’s full weight falls against him. Derek grins against his throat before he lifts his head to kiss him.

“There we go,” he says, pushing his hand further down, fingers teasing at the base of Stiles’ quickly hardening dick.

Stiles rocks up into the touch and reaches down to pull Derek out. “You’re so,” he says, punctuating his words by wrapping his hand firmly around him. “Horny.” He tugs and Derek’s head drops to his shoulder. “All the time.” He runs his thumb over his slick head and buries his nose in Derek’s hair.

“It’s your fault,” Derek grits out.

“Not even sorry.” Derek finally wraps his hand fully around Stiles and Stiles has to bite his lip to keep from being loud about it.

**An Escalade**

“C’mon, c’mon,” Stiles hisses, pulling Derek around the corner of the bus and away from the group.

“Wha—?” he starts, stopping when he trips.

“Shh!”

Stiles starts running, hand still around Derek’s wrist and Derek has no choice but to follow him across the parking lot, dodging in between the other buses and golf carts and trucks. Stiles skids to a stop next to a black Escalade. Derek collides into his back, pressing Stiles against the side of the car with an “oof.”

“What are we doing?” Derek asks, pulling away and righting him.

Stiles reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls a set of keys. He rattles them and grins.

“Are we stealing an Escalade?”

“This is our Escalade. The driver is shooting the shit with the bus driver, we have at least twenty minutes.”

Derek doesn’t need to hear anything else. He presses Stiles against the side of the car – his whole body lined up with all of Stiles’ – and kisses him. Stiles kisses back, making a pleased sound in the back of his throat. The keys jangle and the car beeps to let them know it’s unlocked. Derek steps away to open the back door and Stiles slides along the side until he’s tumbling inside, hands (and keys) tangled in Derek’s collar.

Derek pulls the door closed behind them and the car beeps to say it’s locked. Stiles tosses the keys into the front seat and scoots backward across the seat, trying to roughly drag Derek up with him by the hair. Derek growls a warning and his teeth sink into the sliver of skin between Stiles’ waistband and his pushed up shirt.

Stiles groans and relents, watches Derek unbutton his jeans and pull him out, wishes he could see better… and then Derek’s mouth is on him and his head falls back against the door.

**Backstage at a Festival**

Derek watches as Stiles paces, shaking his hands out and breathing deeply. He’s wearing an impressive path into the grass a few feet away from the steps leading up to the stage. Scott is off being nervous by himself and Lydia is flirting with another drummer not too far away just to keep herself from thinking about it. (And from the looks of it, to actually get some action. Derek smirks and nods at her when she looks over at him to gauge his opinion of the guy.)

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Stiles moans, pausing to lean against a road case stamped with another band’s name.

“You’re fine,” Derek tells him.

“No. I’m going to throw up,” he says with confidence, standing straight and taking off in the opposite direction of the stage.

“No, no, no,” Derek says, skipping to catch up to him. “No running away.”

“If I throw up, it’s not going to be this close to the stage, alright? I have some dignity.”

“Relaaax,” Derek soothes, his hands solid on Stiles’ shoulders.

“Excuse me? Brendon Urie is a fan of our band, I just met Thom fucking Yorke, Ezra Koenig just followed me back on Twitter  _and_  tweeted about us being “cool kids.” AND on top of that, we’re about to play Glastonbury. We shouldn’t be playing Glastonbury, we’re a shitty pop punk band from Beacon Fucking Hills, alright? Oooh, I need to throw up.” Stiles swerves in another direction but keeps walking.

Derek forces him to stop, pulling him backward into his chest a little. “I can distract you,” he murmurs. Stiles shudders and allows himself to be led back toward the stage. Everyone who isn’t having a nervous breakdown or flirting with other band’s drummers is watching the band on now from the stage, making it easier to scout out a secluded spot not too far away. Derek drags Stiles between a big rig parked at the side of the stage and a stack of all their amps and road cases. They’re practically impossible to see.

Derek kisses him and goes for his jeans instantly. Stiles groans into the kiss and leans forward, eager to have something to keep his mind off of his nerves.

“Yes, good idea,” Stiles mumbles. “Fuck me until I forget my name and maybe I won’t throw up on stage.”

“Don’t’ talk about throwing up with your mouth on me,” Derek laughs.

Stiles rolls his eyes, pulls his pants down over his ass and turns around to lean against a stage support. “C’mon.”

It’s not the sexiest line, but it does the trick. Derek grabs his hips and rocks against him. Stiles shudders at the feeling of denim scraping across his bare ass. “Dick out, c’mon,” Stiles insists over his shoulder.

Derek starts to works him open with spit-slicked fingers and Stiles loses all ability to be bossy, groaning with his forehead pressed against his arm.

**A Yacht**

There have been cameras on them all day, from the performance to shots of them lounging around or dancing in a group of people dressed in bikinis and board shorts or wrestling each other in the waves. But for now, the cameras are off. Smokes and the other artists involved in all this stand together on the deck of MTV’s yacht, leaning against the rail as they take in the soft pink and orange sky and the reflections in the water.

They’re waiting for nightfall to shoot the interviews they’ll be airing throughout the week.

One of the girls in the other bands, leans closer to Stiles flirtatiously, bumping his bare shoulder with hers. “You should check out the rooms below deck,” she says. Derek tries to clamp down on the jealous glare he wants to send her way.

Stiles huffs and bumps Derek with his hip. “Maybe later,” he says in a perfectly friendly, oblivious tone that makes the girl’s face fall a little. Stiles launches back into an easy conversation with her though and she seems to forget the mild sting of rejection instantly.

Once it’s dark out and her band gets pulled away to do interviews, Derek grabs Stiles by the wrist and drags him toward the stairs.

“Is it later?” Stiles asks, sounding pleased that Derek picked up on his signal.

“Yes.”

The second level of the yacht is empty and quiet, with all the production crew people and MTV suits upstairs. Derek pulls him into a room, closes the door and clicks the lock into place. He pushes Stiles back onto the bed and yanks his board shorts off his narrow hips, mouthing at him desperately. Stiles laughs and uses his feet to push Derek’s trunks off him too.

“You gonna ride me?” Stiles asks, voice silky. Derek groans against Stiles thigh and nods enthusiastically.

**Alley behind a bar**

“They’re going to come looking for us,” Derek says right as his back hits cold brick.

“We’ve done this with less time,” Stiles says, unbuttoning his pants with a fumbling motion.

“Yeah, but since Scott almost missed bus call, Boyd and Allison have been all hyper aware—“

“Well if they’re dumb enough to try to find us after we’ve been grinding on each other all night, then that’s their loss of innocence, isn’t it?” Stiles argues, corner of his lips lifting in an amused half-smile.

Derek snorts and reaches for his own fly. It’s a solid argument.

“And besides,” Stiles says, softening as he reaches into Derek’s pants the second Derek pulls his hands away. “We’ve yet to be caught.”

“Yeah, it’s a miracle.”

And it is. Derek and Stiles have fucked somewhere in every major city in the US and a lot of major European and Asian cities too.

Stiles’ hand curls around him and he nudges his thigh in between Derek’s. “We’re getting a hotel night soon and I already asked Allison for us to have a separate room,” Stiles whispers. “And in a couple weeks, we’ll be back home. Someone has a new loft for us to christen.”

Derek sighs appreciatively. “Thank god.”

“What? Is public sex getting old?” Stiles teases.

“You know, surprisingly, it sort of is.”

Stiles gasps. “You don’t like fucking next to dumpsters?” he asks, gesturing to their surroundings.

“As long as it’s you, it’s fine.” Derek drags Stiles as tight against him as possible and rolls his hips. “Enough talk…”

 

 

_And the One Place They Do Get Caught…_

**The Loft**

It’d started out as a calm afternoon spent catching up on all the TV they’d missed while on tour. But Stiles can only handle being curled up against Derek’s side with a totally empty loft and a big comfortable bed available to them for so long. He initiates with soft touches to Derek’s inner arm and wrist, curling his fingers around his and kissing his shoulder. Derek sighs and settles into him, using his other hand to trace soft lines up and down Stiles’ neck. Which of course lead to Stiles sucking and kissing his neck…

“Need you,” Stiles says, turning his whole body toward him so he can hook his leg over Derek’s knee.

Derek just murmurs non-verbally and drops his hand to Stiles’ leg, pulls until he has no choice but to straddle him.

Stiles presses his hands to his cheeks and neck and kisses him deeply, licking into his mouth. Derek’s hands settle on his lower back as he kisses him back.

Stiles settles as heavily as he can against Derek’s crotch to get the show on the road, but the slow and careful thing they have going on works for him too…

“Alright,” Derek says, turning his head away from the kiss, chest heaving with breath. “Bed.”

Stiles grins as he dismounts and stands. Derek folds Stiles over his shoulder and stands, capturing Stiles in a fireman’s carry. Derek takes a few steps around the couch and drops Stiles onto the bed.

“This place is so convenient,” Stiles says, pulling Derek down on top of him.

“Uh huh,” Derek agrees, rolling onto his back.

They undress slowly and with lots of care and attention and minimal talking. Everything is soft and fluid and slow, everything tour sex isn’t. Stiles rides Derek with a stupid, content smile, holding Derek’s hands.

“God, I love you,” Stiles sighs.

“Kiss me,” Derek requests. Stiles falls forward against his chest and obliges easily. Derek pulls a hand free to drag the fluffy comforter over them both. And Derek’s skin is all warm and soft, broken up by patches of rough dark hair. And he smells perfect. And he’s good at kissing and sex with him is perfect and everything is perfect and—

The door screeches open, followed by an echoing: “SUP, assholes, why aren’t you answering your phones!”

“Ohhh ho ho,” Lydia says before laughing.

“OH, GOD, sorry, oh my god,” Scott exclaims.

Derek sits up instinctually and Stiles hisses at the rough movement before rolling away. “Dammit, guys.”

Scott has his back to them and Lydia’s shielding her eyes. “We’re supposed to go eat with the parents, we had this all planned, not our fault you two are irresponsible!” Lydia scolds.

“Please leave for a damn second,” Derek begs.

Without lowering her hand, Lydia reaches blindly for Scott and drags him out the door.

“Are you fucking kidding?” Derek asks the universe at large, grabbing his pants off the floor.

Stiles just laughs. 


	7. 2013? - *~Que Bromantico~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My note from Tumblr: This all came about because bleep0bleep tweeted me this gif right here [LINK](https://78.media.tumblr.com/31373a38740f28186daa65a50d1cf760/tumblr_nbmmcvzh6Y1s68rb3o2_r1_500.gif) and expressed that she wanted it to be a Play Crack moment and I was like SAME. So here it is. (for inquiring minds, that twitter thread can be found here.) ER THIS IS CIRCA IDK PRE-BREAK UP TOURS *shrug* specific time not important.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr Post](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/98582222579/que-bromantico)

The audience (who long ago had aligned themselves with Scott and Derek, dammit) cheers every time Stiles and Lydia fail to answer a question fast enough, which is totally unfair. Derek had wooed them. He did his whole sexy smirk and smolder routine when the host asked them which team they favored. (Stiles totally understands and would have fallen for it too, but still. Not fair.)

But the worst of it was that the son of a bitch had to throw in little, almost innocent touches that distracted the shit out of Stiles when he was trying to answer. This was such a simple fucking game, it was all just music questions about the bands they already liked and their label mates, but so much as Derek Hale’s fucking finger tip on his knee was enough to suck the answer right out of his memory, god dammit.

Luckily, Lydia ties the game and that sends them into a lightning round of true/false questions, with Derek and Stiles facing off.

“True or False, Fall Out Boy’s first album is Evening Out with Your Girlfriend.”

THAT’S A GODDAMN TRICK QUESTION Stiles wants to yell but he raises the sign with the false side facing out. Ding ding, correct.

“True or False, Taking Back Sunday—“Derek puts his arm behind him on the couch and brushes his neck with his thumb as he goes and fuuuuck, Stiles remembers blasting a Taking Back Sunday album to cover the sounds of them fucking once back in high school and… “—Brand New.”

Wait, what was the question? Stiles fails to lift his sign at all and they get the question wrong. Derek and Scott have won. Stiles looks over at Derek with his brow furrowed. Derek lifts an eyebrow and smirks and mouths an apology without looking apologetic at all.

Fuck him.

Stiles wants to be annoyed that Derek used the power of seduction to distract him to win, but… damn, Stiles’ mind was already hours ahead, waiting naked and sprawled out in the hotel room at the end of their press obligations. Fuck him is right, Stiles is definitely onboard for that. Eagerly awaiting the moment. Mmm…

He exchanges exaggerated frowns with Lydia and sighs deeply when the host asks him if he’s upset that they lost. And then he laughs and says no.

“He’ll forget all about this later,” Derek assures the host and there’s the fucking tiniest little suggestion in his voice that makes Stiles’ skin go hot. Stiles knows that voice, he knows what it means and he’s ready for it. It means fucking against a wall and on the floor and on the dresser and in the shower and yeah Stiles will absolutely forget about this. Hopefully he forgets his own name. It’s their first hotel night in a week, the first chance for unbridled, uninterrupted sex in quite awhile…

Stiles is zoning out a little thinking about it when Derek elbows him. Stiles’ body reels away from him in surprise, his head whips toward him and damn does he look great today. Soft hair, the perfect level of scruff, an easy (shit-eating, competitive little bitch) smile on his face… Stiles licks his lips and imagines he can still taste Derek’s toothpaste from when they kissed before getting to the studio. Stiles wants to shove him into a janitor’s closet and suck his dick. He wants to pin him to the mattress and ride him until—

“Stiles’ competitive side is coming out, man,” Scott says from the other side of Derek. Derek quirks an eyebrow at him and Stiles turns back toward the host.

“I’m just planning on how I’m going to get back at him later, don’t mind me,” he says with as charming of a smile as he can manage. And what he means by that is he’s going to totally ruin him.

**

“You two have no concept of subtlety,” Allison tells them in the car on the way to their next thing. Lydia snorts and mutters something that sounds like “understatement” without looking up from her phone.

“Seriously, I feel like I saw too much,” Scott agrees.

Derek waves it off. “You’ve seen much worse.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“I’m totally going to get a call about this as soon as that airs.” She says it with an air of observation instead of irritation.

“Listen, if you guys were banging someone as hot as Derek, you’d have issues not thinking about it too,” Stiles argues for himself.

**

The second they’re through their door, Stiles has Derek against the wall and his teeth on his throat and his hands in his shirt. Derek shoves back against him to free his arms up so he can grab Stiles by the face. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and their teeth clack and Stiles presses in against Derek’s hip for the friction of it.

Derek’s hands are hot on his neck and his tongue is in Stiles’ mouth and Stiles’ head is spinning, his skin tingling, all blood flow is being redirected to his dick and god dammit. Derek takes advantage of him the second he lets the keening moan he’d been holding back slip out of his mouth and pushes him until they’re stumbling toward the bed.

With Derek on top, Stiles paws helplessly at his clothes while his chest heaves. Derek straddles his hips and smirks down at him and slowly strips out of his shirt. When Stiles reaches up to touch his bare chest, Derek catches his wrists and holds them just millimeters away from him. Stiles whines.

“This is for telling the radio host I cry during Fox and the Hound,” Derek says, voice low and sexy, through a beautiful smile.

“I was trying to make you more likable, do you know how hard it is to—“

“Yeah, I know how hard it is,” Derek cuts him off, angling his hips toward Stiles’ straining erection. Stiles lets out a hissing breath and stops fighting against Derek’s restraint.

“And this is for saying you’d date Scott before you’d date me,” he continues, grinding against him again. Stiles laughs and tries to get his wrists back again.

“You’re acting like you weren’t mean to me today, you were so mean.” Stiles bucks up against him and catches Derek off-guard. He lets go of Stiles’ wrists to catch himself from falling forward as his body convulses. “You sabotaged me in that game this morning and then you told the radio host that “some girl” told you I cried after sex, and okay that was exactly once and you were crying too, asshole.”

Derek laughs and tries to apologize but Stiles saw that as a weakness and used the moment to turn them both over so Stiles is on top. He strips off his shirt and is much kinder to Derek when he reaches out to touch him.

“Allison’s going to get so much shit because of us,” Stiles says with his best disappointed father voice. “You let that competition get you all horny, you’re an animal.”

“Me? You grabbed my ass on live TV today, but I’m the animal.”

“Listen, son, you’ve slapped my ass on live TV how many times? Pay back.”

Derek’s touch is light and loving as it traces down his chest and toward his belt. “I just like seeing you all hot and bothered.” He’s still got that same pretty smile he’s had on all day when he says it and Stiles is definitely going to fuck that right off of him. Replace it with blown pupils, open mouthed panting, flushed cheeks and mussed hair. Then he can smile all he wants. “Wipe that smirk off your face, beautiful,” Derek teases, pinching his side to bring him back.

“Mmm, beautiful,” Stiles teases as he dips back down to kiss him. Derek’s hands grip his ass and pull him harder down against him. “I still have to get back at you,” Stiles mumbles against his lips. “I meant that very seriously, we are at war.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to ride you into the damn mattress.”

“Oh no, anything but that,” Derek quips, his fingers already dipping below Stiles’ waistband.

“Get your dick out,” Stiles orders, dismounting Derek to get his own pants off once and for all. His mouth practically waters when Derek lifts his hips to slide out of his jeans. “I’m going to destroy you.”

“And you’re saying all that competition got me horny?”

Stiles crawls back onto the bed and gives him a wicked smile before tracing the tip of his tongue up the underside of his dick. Derek shudders and grabs Stiles’ hair. “I’m going to get you so close, Der.” He tilts his head and presses his lips to his head and hums just a little. “Just like this. Going to make you shake.”

“Stiles.”

“Hm? You like that? Gonna get you so close and then I’m going to stop and you’re going to be begging for it.”

“Fuck,” Derek grits out, lips curled into a smile anyway. Stiles takes him into his mouth and watches the smile disappear as his mouth drops open. “Dammit, Stiles.”

Stiles is trying so hard not to laugh at himself for all of this as he bobs his head and swirls his tongue around him. God, he loves him. Loves this body. He pulls off with a wet pop and kisses Derek’s hip and curls his fingers into the dense patch of hair close by. “You’re beautiful like this,” Stiles tells him and the truth of that keeps him from laughing. “All ready to fuck and—“ alright, enough. He breaks out into laughter and crawls back up Derek’s body. “I can’t, sexy talk is so weird,” he confesses before kissing him. “But I’m still going to ride you like a rodeo clown.”

“That’s a terrible image, thanks.”

“Not terrible enough to be a turn off, I see,” Stiles declares happily when he reaches back and closes his hand around Derek’s still very impressive erection.

**

Stiles is so relaxed the next morning. So very relaxed. So happy. Chill, even. Mmm. He’s holding hands with Derek and his hand is warm and familiar and Derek is warm and familiar and his lips are warm and familiar. They snuggle on the back lounge couch and smile dopily at each other as the bus rumbles merrily away from New York City and life is good. So good.

“Gross,” Allison says as she pops back into the room. “So, as predicted, your weird eye-fuck has been made into a very popular gif. Label wants us to tweet something about it being bromantic.” She rolls her eyes. The bromance angle is so tired, really. Stiles once told Brunski to look up “bromance” on a gay porn website and Brunski glared at him humorlessly in response. (“Straight boys lending helping hands, frat bros giving drunk hand jobs, c’mon Brunski! It’s a beautiful thing.”) But anyway. Stiles sighed dramatically and nuzzled against Derek’s neck.

“Just say something like “Sharing a broment” or something, please?” Allison asks. She holds her phone up so they can see the gif in question. Stiles reels away from Derek and rocks back, licking his lips while Derek smirks at him over and over and over again, an infinite loop of…

“I was thinking about riding his dick, to be honest,” Stiles informs her. She wrinkles her nose as Derek starts shaking with laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (God...)


	8. 2014 - Heart on the Floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Heart on the Floor" Playlist](https://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/heart-on-the-floor)
> 
> [Tumblr Post](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/102340752954/heart-on-the-floor)

**1\. “Limousine” – Brand New**

_Yeah you were right about me, / But can I get myself out from underneath this guilt that will crush me, / And in the choir I saw a sad messiah, / He was bored and tired of my laments, / Said, “I died for you one time but never again.”_

The most miserable fucking drone is pouring out of the speakers and Stiles is biting his tongue, lying on the floor in the dead center of his woefully empty living room. Scott and Lydia are in the kitchen, talking softly amongst themselves.

And Stiles. Well, well… Stiles is contemplating escape.

This house is a morgue.

And every day it gets darker earlier. Every day, it stays darker longer. Every day, Stiles forgets a new detail.

 “Forgets.” Cute. Purposefully files away in the latter pages of a Last Will and Testament, maybe. Things like the nearly invisible freckles on his tanned shoulders, the shape and direction of his most stubborn cowlick, the way his tongue trips over the syllables of Stiles’ actual given name when he attempts it…

God, he should be writing this down. They have a fucking album to record here, as Allison so gently reminded him. And he’s feeling so goddamn poetic…

This song has peaks and valleys, Stiles feels heavy like a summer storm cloud and then tossed into the air and then dropped and then… “I love you so much, but do me a favor, baby, don’t reply…”

And then Stiles is on his feet and tearing the plug out of the wall, his heart hammering in his chest. He sinks back to the floor, cord still in his hands. Footsteps in the hall and then…

“Are you okay?” Scott asks.

“I never want to hear this fucking band ever again.”

**2\. “There, There” – The Wonder Years**

_Is this what it feels like with my wings clipped?_

Stiles is glad that Isaac is here. Yes. Glad. Very glad. So thankful. The smile on his face feels a little wooden and he can’t unclench his jaw long enough to actually say anything, but he is truly grateful.

Scott is doing a lot better looking optimistic than Stiles is. His smile seems a lot more natural, at least. And Lydia is morose and a tad quiet but she kissed Isaac on the cheek when he showed up and hugged him for a long time.

Stiles is spinning out. Hydroplaning through a mental intersection. Crashing. Burning. Smiling through one of the lowest lows he’s felt so far.

When Isaac picks up his bass, he already knows every song. It doesn’t surprise Stiles, it just… guts him. But of course he knows. He and Derek were friends. Sat together during the hours of downtime, playing together, exchanging tips and teaching each other songs. Derek lit up like nothing else when he was talking about music. Stiles loved to watch. And Isaac… golden, beautiful Isaac… doesn’t hold a candle to that.

“Excuse me,” Stiles mutters, standing up and stiffly striding toward the door, trying to keep his face neutral until he can get outside to properly panic.

They go out to dinner after rehearsal. Stiles can feel the relief rolling off his bandmates. It went well. Isaac fit in without having to shove because he was already family. He already made sense. He was already one of them. Stiles can tell that everyone already feels a little better about all of this.

But all Stiles can feel is just how not hungry he is. He picks at his bread and turns down the waiter with a hand wave and a slight smile when he goes around the table taking orders. Lydia gives him a look and he ducks his head to stare into his wine.

He usually attempts to seem lively, but he can’t tonight. His mouth is sewn shut while the rest of them talk, the conversation flowing easily around him.

**3\. “Litost” – X Ambassadors**

_Why play hide-and-go-seek / Safe behind your veneer / Does it bury your burden baby / Makes it all disappear_

It’s fine.

It’s fine, it’s fine.

Stiles takes a deep breath and holds it. He wills his body to be still. He lets his breath out slowly and adjusts his jaw and clasps his hands behind his back to stretch. He paces and sings through a couple scales and closes his eyes and shakes his whole body out and jumps and continues warming up.

He’s been drinking all day and now isn’t an exception. He’s buzzing. He takes a swig of bourbon and feels it sting all the way down and it’s terrible for his throat – it gives him a smoky quality that anyone who knew anything could point out as unhealthy – but he’s not going for art here, he’s not going for best performance of his life. He’s just trying to survive. He’s going to be trying his ass off all tour, this is just the first step. One down, however many to go.

He clings to his mic stand on stage, unmoving. He sings his heart out, he keeps the talking to a minimum. First night of tour and he’s already a mess. He feels utterly alone up there, he feels disconnected from the rest of the band, he can hear them and see them but he can’t  _find_  them.

He feels like half a fucking person out here. He’s vivisected and bleeding out. He’s dying, he has to be.

When they get to Buoyant, Stiles chokes on the words and his vision blurs with hot, filthy, angry tears. He turns his back to the audience and gestures for the band to keep going without him. He hides his sweating face in his sleeve and he breathes. Boyd or someone appears at his side and shoves a bottle of water into his hand. Scott keeps singing, Lydia keeps drumming, Isaac keeps playing. Stiles chugs half the bottle and wipes his face and turns back to the audience.

But he doesn’t see them.

He just sees a faceless mass.

He gets back to the mic and jumps back into the song just before it ends. He doesn’t comment on it. No one else does either. They move on to a song that Derek has never touched.

**4\. “Casual Affair” – Panic! at the Disco**

_Stay for as long as you have time / So the mess that we’ll become / Leaves something to talk about_

Stiles presses her against the wall and seals his mouth to her neck, smirks when she groans. He works his hands up under her shirt, fingers lightly tracing her ribs, teasing at the skin just beneath the band of her lacy bra.

Women. Gorgeous things.

Soft, sweeping curves and lacy underthings and long silky hair and perfume and lipstick…

“I was starting to think you were gay,” she says, breathy. Stiles pulls away from her and picks her up, she wraps her legs around him and he takes her to the bed. He doesn’t dignify the comment with a response.

He pulls her shirt over her head and slides his hands up her thighs, under her skirt, until his fingertips brush silk on her hips. She grabs him by the collar of his shirt.

 “Did you hear me?” she asks.

Stiles’ eyes zero in on her lips, painted red, bleeding around the edges from kissing in the elevator. She looked perfect tonight, flashing pearly smiles at the cameras and shaking out her bouncy blonde curls. Those same cameras caught them leaving together later. Stiles can only imagine the gossip that’ll come from it.

“Yeah, and?” He hooks his fingers into the hem of her underwear and pulls down.

“I’ve been trying to get you for years, every time I see you,” she confesses.  She reaches for Stiles’ fly, slides the zipper down slowly. Stiles listens to the teeth click click click… He takes off his shirt and covers her body with his, kissing her collar bones and between her breasts, his hand digging under her to undo the clasps. She laughs and wiggles out of her skirt and pushes impatiently at Stiles’ jeans, reaching for his dick…

“So now you’re into me?” she asks. She’s begging for compliments and Stiles has plenty to give. Fuck, she’s beautiful.  Stiles has always thought so, ever since the Grammy party he met her at years ago. Every time they ran into each other, she’d tilt her bod

y toward him and smile and hike up her skirt and touch his arm with a flirty smirk and Derek would be rolling his eyes not too far away…

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her, sliding the straps off her shoulders and pulling it away, revealing her body like the best damn gift on Christmas morning. “Now shut up,” he mumbles against her lips, one hand straying between her legs.

She makes the prettiest sounds – breathy moans, little whines, wonderful strings of curses. Stiles can’t stop looking at her – her face, the way her hair falls around her against the pillow… She clutches Stiles’ back, grasps the headboard above her head. And fuck does she pull her own weight, lifting her hips to meet him, moving her hips in little circles, god damn.

Stiles finishes before her, overwhelmed by the sensory details she provides – he’s so not as used to girls and that’s a damn shame. He crawls down her body to finish her off with his tongue, leaves her writhing and cussing with her hands pulling at Stiles’ hair.

“We could have been doing this for years,” she says when she can speak again, after Stiles has crawled back up her body. And no. No they couldn’t have.

“I wasn’t available,” Stiles confesses, pushing her over onto her side so he can lay behind her.

“Who was it?” she asks, shooting a suspicious look over her shoulder. Her fingers curl around his wrist to keep him there.

And he’s still juuuust functionally high enough to be honest. “Derek.”

“Thought you said you weren’t gay,” she says playfully.

“I’m not.”

She turns in his arms and hooks her leg over his hip, presses against him, drags her lips and tongue over his throat… “Clearly,” she mumbles. Stiles feels arousal twitching in his gut, distantly, desperately. And she’s ready to go again. Girls. Girls are great. “Derek, huh? That’s hot,” she says thoughtfully, her hand tracing slowly down his chest and stomach… “Hm, now I’m picturing you getting bent over and fucked…” She lifts her hand to drag her thumb along his bottom lip.. “I bet Derek loooved those lips of yours on his—“

“Don’t,” Stiles warns, a little too much heat seeping into his voice.

“Then shut me up,” she breathes.

**5\. “Sunrise, Sunset” – Bright Eyes**

_She raised her hands in the air, asked you, / When was the last time you looked in the mirror? / ‘Cause you’ve changed._

The seatbelt light turns off with a pleasant ding and Stiles reaches for his carry-on bag. His hand shakes as he slips his hand inside, fingers curling around the cool plastic bottle. He unscrews the lid, shakes a couple pills out onto his palm, pops them before Lydia or Allison look his way, downs them with a sip of whiskey. Not recommended.

The bottle says to take as needed, and this is how he needs it.

The bottle also says to not exceed blah blah amount in blah hours but they just don’t work like they used to, doc…

“Mr. Stilinski,” a sweet voice says, foggy and distant. “Your seatbelt. We’re about to land…”

He lifts his head, squints at the time listed on the TV embedded in the seat in front of him. “Sorry,” he mumbles, trying to sit upright, marveling at how he lost an entire flight. He pulls his headphones off and tries to smile up at her. “Smooth flight, huh?” he asks when he notices that the flight attendant is still looking at him. “Didn’t crash. Always a good sign.”

She smiles a little, but it’s tight and uncomfortable. “Yes, sir.”  And she continues on.

Lydia turns around in her seat to look at him. She looks worried. She looks like she knew how many bottles he’s gone through in the last couple of weeks and how many hours he’s lost.

“What?” Stiles asks. Because she doesn’t actually know a fucking thing.

“What’d you take?”

“Nothing that wasn’t prescribed to me.”

She shakes her head, brow creased. “You look like shit.”

**6\. “Broadripple is Burning” – Margot & The Nuclear So and Sos**

_And darling I’m drunk, / And everything that I have loved has turned to stone. / So pack your bags and come back home._

Stiles is not conscious. He’s not. He’s not alive, he’s not here. He’s just… in between. He heaves and heaves and sobs and heaves and there’s a solid hand in the center of his back, someone’s body heat close enough to weakly reach for until his hand grasps a T-shirt…

Stiles dry heaves until his energy is gone, until he falls back against that body nearby. Strong arms surround him, someone’s nose presses into his hair. They’re shaking.

Stiles keeps sobbing, snot and tears mixing unpleasantly on his face, the stench of vomit thick in his nose and everything hurts. Like. Everything.

He must be saying something, he has to be, because that warm body behind him is holding onto him for dear life and whispering faintly, “I know, I know, Stiles, I know, it’s okay, Stiles, it’s okay” over and over again.

And it’s Scott.

Stiles leans back against him and crosses his arms over Scott’s so he can hold his wrists. So he can keep Scott there because he needs him and if he doesn’t hold him he might float away too. Stiles can’t lose him too. He curls into himself, tucks his head down as far as it can go and he feels nothing but hurt and horror. God, he can’t do this.

Stiles must be saying something, he has to be, he can feel his mouth moving but he can’t hear over the roaring and the splitting headache and his toxic blood but he does hear Scott and he thinks he hears a sob in his voice too. “He’s not coming back, he isn’t, so we just have to handle this, okay? Stiles, it’s okay, Stiles. I know, Stiles, I know.”

**7\. “Hello, I’m In Delaware” – City & Colour**

_So there goes my life / passing by with every exit sign._

Nothing in the world could get Stiles used to the way his father looks when he’s bone tired and disappointed. Nothing could numb the disgusting shame of it. The particular cocktail of prescription drugs coursing through his veins can’t even begin to touch it.

“Dad,” Stiles attempts. And then he mouths wordlessly. There’s not a lot he can say to make this go away.

“You need help.” He has that shaky, quiet, terrified voice that Stiles remembers from various points throughout his life… everything he said while mom was in the hospital sounded like that…

“I’m fine.” And he knows how false that rings. He knows what he looks like. He knows that his bones stick out more than they used to and that the dark circles under his eyes only ever got darker and that his whole body tremors sometimes. He used to lose hours, but now he loses days. Whole tour stops, even. He knows he’s not fine. And he’s kind of okay with that.

“You’re not fine.” He sets the pills down on the table and reaches for him. His father’s hands are hot and strong and solid enough to weigh Stiles down when he takes Stiles’ cold, shaking hands as he feels the swooping, airborn rush get worse…

He’d just wanted to be functional. He’d just wanted to be okay. He’d just wanted to be numb…

**8\. “Habits (Stay High)” – Tove Lo**

_You’re gone and I gotta stay / High all the time_

Stiles totters on what feel like too-long legs. Way too long. He doesn’t remember being this tall. He doesn’t remember being responsible for so much limb. Scott grips him around the waist and hisses something in his ear, but he’s just thinking about legs. Leeggggs. Long legs. How do legs so long and unwieldy support a person? How? Isn’t walking just graceful falling?

And suddenly he’s gracefully falling towards a hallway and a door opens and it’s bright. Scott deposits him on a counter and locks the door. “You’re so wasted,” he says, his face swimming back into view.

Stiles is looking down at his legs and they don’t really look all that long but damn they are just  _too much_  right now.

“HEY, Stiles, c’mon.” Suddenly there’s a wet paper towel on his face and wow that isn’t going to do a damn thing, but alright. Alright, Scott. “Get it together.” Alright, Scott.

Stiles shakes his head until the paper towel is dislodged and Scott is probably losing his patience, but Stiles can’t focus on that.

“What’d you take?” Scott asks.

“Nothing.”

“Stiles, please just tell me.”

“Nooothing.” Stiles starts giggling. Nothing nothingnothingnothing. He didn’t take a thing, the thing is taking him. He leans back and his head hits the mirror and he laughs. This is great.

“God DAMMIT, Stiles,” Scott yells and he slams his fist against the counter. Stiles jumps and looks at him. He does his best to actually see him…

“You’re a fucking mess,” Scott says and he’s probably at the end of his rope, honestly.  “We’re going back to the hotel.”

“Nope, nuh huh.” Stiles struggles to slide off the counter. No no, he’s just getting started tonight. Scott boxes him in with his body and glares at him.

“We’re going back to the hotel and you’re going to sleep this off.”

“Hm. I’m going to need someone to keep me up,” Stiles slurs. It’s the longest sentence he’s put together in awhile, Scott should be proud.

“No. We’re going to go sleep.” Scott’s hands are firm on his shoulders as he maneuvers him back toward the door.

“You gonna help, Scotty? You gonna heeeelp? Keep me up all night. Bet you’re good.” Stiles has no idea what he’s saying really, he’s mostly trying to scare Scott off and maybe this’ll do it.

“Shut up. Stop.”

“If not you, then who? C’mon, Scotty, I’d make it good for you—“

“You’re an asshole, you know that? You’re a real piece of shit when you’re like this. You need some serious fucking help.”

Stiles feels the change in him, the second he gets a little higher – too high, definitely too high – when his vision gets spotty and his whole body is burning and all he can think is that he’s choking on poison…

After that, he’s vaguely aware of Scott depositing him in his hotel room.

And then he wakes up in a hospital bed.

**9\. “Couches in Alleys” – Ben Gibbard**

_And when the wheels cease to spin, the walls and the fences will grow higher than redwood trees. / And I know your demise. / And I fear what will happen when the road fails to flow under me._

Stiles knows this whole pilgrimage is sort of bullshit, he does. He knows it’s a cliché and he knows he’s just like every other sad asshole in his early twenties.

Doesn’t make it any less real to him.

He’s sitting in the Jeep with a book in his lap, staring at waves crashing against a cliff face and he feels the best he’s felt in awhile. Painfully clear-headed and absolutely gutted and possibly the most lonely he’s ever been, but good. It hurts so well. This is a rehab thing, this… hurt being useful thing. Hurt being healthy. This feels healthy. He’s trying to be so aware of what health feels like. Another rehab thing. Acknowledge the successes and good things and healthy days.

He lets his head fall back against the headrest and his thumb traces along the edge of the pages. It’s worn and feathery soft under his calloused touch. Every word inside is familiar and toxic. It’s bookended with the sweetest, most painful memories… Beginning with Derek shoving the book into his hands, that soft smile that always seemed to be reserved for Stiles playing at his lips, his finger tips brushing Stiles’ just as an excuse to touch… “I promise you’ll like it.” And ending with Stiles threading his too-cold fingers through Derek’s and pulling him behind him in the woods while he gave him a thorough, glowing review… capped off with a shy: “I could feel you through this whole book, you know? I felt really close to you.”

What teenage boy doesn’t dream of being Jack Kerouac, though? There’s nothing special about this book or this place. Sure, Big Sur is beautiful, but it’s just a place. Stiles has seen thousands of beautiful places.

He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open and drops his feet to the gravel and walks as close to the edge as he dares. The waves crash and pull and craaaash and pull below, gurgling through the rocks, carving the cliff face, sending tendrils of salty mist up toward Stiles…  The air here is thick and crisp and sharp and cleansing. He carefully sits and looks out over the expanse of blue sea. He closes his eyes and just… hurts. He grasps the book in his hands so tight it bows. He pulls it up to his face to inhale the scent of old, yellowed pages and pictures what it’ll look like fluttering down into the surf, being swept out to sea like a sacrifice… And his throat constricts and his eyes start to sting.

He can’t. He won’t.

He’s an idiot.

He sets the book down behind him and pulls his knees up to his chest and stares out at the sea for as long as he can stand it.

Feeling this way is awful. Missing Derek sucks. The terror of his near death really hits him now. And all of this, no matter how overwhelming and horrific it might be, is better than feeling nothing at all. Pain is real, numb is… dark and empty and cold. Pain is a good sign sometimes. It’s healthy.

When Stiles gets up, he picks the book up too and he takes it back to the car. He’ll let Derek stick with him. He’ll let the book stay too. He’ll only think of him sometimes. He’ll only miss him when he absolutely has to. And it’ll be fine.

**10\. “It Will Come Back” – Hozier**

_You know better babe, you know better babe, / Than to smile at me, smile at me like that._

Stiles watches them from his spot on the green room couch. He  _appreciates_  their camaraderie. It’s better than fighting and it’s better than silence and it’s better than a cancelled tour. But it still aches.

It’s only the second night of tour and Scott hasn’t looked this happy since… Stiles can’t really remember.

Derek smiles easier than he used to. That’s something Stiles has noticed since he’s been around. Not that Derek never smiled back then. He always reserved the softest, sweetest faces for Stiles… but now Derek just grins out of nowhere. He looks at Lydia and his face lights up. Lydia grins back and presses herself against his side, looking up at him like he’s buzzing with magic. And he cuffs Scott on the shoulder and ruffles his hair when he sees him. He laughs more than he used to.

But every time he looks at Stiles, his face goes blank. And that kills. Stiles wants to run his finger tips over the panes of Derek’s face to sculpt a new expression. He wants to touch the soft skin under his eyes and trace the lines of his jaw and run his thumb over his lips and… Stiles is shook from his thoughts by a warm hand on the back of his neck. He blinks a few times so his eyes can focus.

“Good show,” Derek says, almost shyly. He offers him the slightest smile, his hand lingering there, his touch uncertain. Testing the waters. Looking at Stiles like he’s unmapped territory even though he’s touched and kissed and loved every single part of him already… Fuck.

“You too,” Stiles says, barely smiling back. Derek nods and his hand slips away and Stiles already misses the heat of it.  

 

 


	9. 2014 - The Quitter in Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["The Quitter in Me" Playlist](https://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/the-quitter-in-me)
> 
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> [Tumblr Post](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/97846685264/the-quitter-in-me)

**1\. “The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot” – Brand New**

_“You are so fragile and thin, standing trial for your sins / Holding on to yourself the best you can / You are the smell before rain / You are the blood in my veins.”_

Laura beats him to the driver’s side of the car by mere seconds and Derek doesn’t have an ounce of fight left in him. She laughs evilly to herself when he drops the keys into her lap and heads around to the passenger side.

When Laura turns on the car, sad acoustic guitar blares out of the speakers.

“Oh GOD,” she groans over the music. “Please tell me this isn’t a fucking playlist.”-

“If it makes you less sad, I’ll die by  your hand—“ Derek jabs the radio button and turns down the volume as the same old Bastille song from the summer before “ay-oh ay-oh”s away. He doesn’t answer her question. He doesn’t say anything.

He especially doesn’t tell her that he saw a picture of Stiles on accident and he looked thin and tired and wrecked. He doesn’t tell her that he had to leave the house without his phone to keep himself from calling one of them or texting them. He doesn’t tell her that he woke up this morning and could smell his soap on the pillow. She sings along to the radio and doesn’t say anything at all.

**2\. “All I Wanted” – Paramore**

_“I could follow you to the beginning / Just to relive the start / Maybe then we’d remember to slow down / At all of our favorite parts”_

Hanging out with friends from high school is a long shot. And he doesn’t really have a lot of time to do that anyway, but… sometimes it’s nice to catch lunch with someone familiar in between classes.

But… these people are about five or six years removed from his life.

There’s a lot of “Remember when Jeremy tried to ask Candace out and her girlfriend beat the shit out of him?” and “dude, Derek, remember senior year when…” that Derek doesn’t remember. Not even vaguely. “Oh, that’s right, you were hanging out with Stilinski and McCall.”

Before, they would have probably wrinkled their noses disdainfully about them. Now, they barely contain the desire to ask him about what it was like. Being “famous.” They acted as though Derek wasn’t, but he knew it was in the back of their minds all the time.

“Did you ever get Lydia Martin? She’s so hot,” one of them says thoughtfully. Derek wants to punch him right in the face. His face must reflect his disgust because he backs down.

Derek feigns a phone call to get himself out of lunch early. The next time they call, he doesn’t answer. He sees them from across the quad a few weeks later. The same group of high school meatheads he used to be friends with, people who haven’t changed a bit from what he could tell, people who made him absolutely ache for what he lost… He relies on his iPod for company, plays the same old 10 songs over and over again. He remembers when Jackson tried to ask Lydia to prom and she dumped her drink on him. He remembers senior year when they all skinny dipped at Lydia’s lake house and Sheriff Stilinski busted them…

**3\. “Lover Dearest” – Marianas Trench**

_“The bitter in you and the quitter in me / Is bigger than the both of us.”_

So it’s a bad night. A really bad night.

Derek’s at his breaking point with this stupid fucking class and he can’t read another word on the global economy and he can’t get the problem sets right and he can hear a party vibrating through his floors. It’s hot in his loft and the open window just invites more sluggish, humid air in. His fists are in his hair and he’s tugging, hoping that if he rips his own scalp off his headache will go away…

The band performed at some MTV awards show tonight. Stiles looked so fucking good decked out in his trademark tight jeans and a well-tailored suit jacket. Apparently he’d been interviewed on the red carpet, apparently someone asked him how they were getting along without Derek and he said “better than ever” and apparently someone said he didn’t seem quite sober. And apparently someone thought they should text Derek to let him know about all of this.

They had been wrong, very very wrong.

The assholes downstairs cheer loudly over the music and the bass seems to get even more invasive and the tempo picks up and he can hear the glasses in his kitchen singing along, ringing and clinking in their cabinets. Derek blasts his own music over it as best as he can, focuses as hard as he can on the mournful piano that doesn’t actually do fuck all to drown out anything.

He ends up ripping a handful of pages out of his textbook. He opens a window and tosses it out. He takes advantage of the sound and of his already-pounding headache to yell as much as he wants as he kicks everything he can reach and throws everything he can get his hands on.

“Honey…” his mother says the next morning as she gingerly steps over a broken amp and picks up a torn up copy of some book Derek didn’t particularly like. Derek’s feet are killing him, his hands are bruised and bloody.

**4\. “Three Cheers for Five Years” – Mayday Parade**

_“Too late, I’m sure and lonely / Another night, another dream wasted on you / Just be here now against me / You know the words, so sing along for me, baby”_

Derek runs every morning. He wakes up and before he can think too much, he drags himself out of bed and puts on the running shoes he keeps by the door and he doesn’t stop walking until he’s running and he doesn’t stop running until he’s choking on air and his muscles are screaming. Anything to keep his mind off of…

He runs past the Sheriff’s department sometimes. Not on purpose. He passes the hospital other times. He just runs, he doesn’t think about it. It’s not like he can get lost. It’s still dark out, the town’s still asleep, he has an hour before he has to be showered and in his car on the way to class.

He spends his day in class. He gets work done in between classes. He drinks more coffee than anyone should. He gets in his car. He goes home. He does homework. He cooks. He goes to bed.

And more often than not, Stiles is there. Derek doesn’t lay on his side of the bed. Derek doesn’t even look at it. But if he wakes up in the middle of the night, thinking he heard a sound, he almost always thinks Stiles is over there, just a hair’s width away. And he never is.

He wonders if that’ll ever just… stop. He wonders if he’ll ever wake up and not feel like he has to run away from the ghost in his bed.

**5\. “All of This” – Blink-182**

_“Again I wait for this to pull apart / To break my time in two / Another night with her / But I’m always wanting you.”_

He’s the only repeat fuck Derek’s had since Stiles himself. Not that it’s a sentimental thing.

He’s hot.

He’s thin in a strong way, his face is sculpted, his eyes are bright green, he has a blinding white smile, he’s got an okay personality.

But mostly he’s discreet. Derek doesn’t know what he does, but he guesses he has a military background. Either active or inactive, Derek can understand why he keeps it to himself. He’s not sure if he recognizes Derek or not, but if he does he keeps that to himself.

They meet at a motel sometimes. They kiss but not tenderly. They get naked quick and Derek instantly starts opening him up with his fingers. He rolls a condom on with no fanfare. He fucks him. He’s tight and he makes all the right sounds.

And sometimes he tops and it’s the same, but opposite. They kiss but not tenderly. They get naked quick and he instantly starts opening Derek up with his fingers. He rolls a condom on with no fanfare. He fucks him. Derek feels blessedly full as he gets pounded, Derek bites the pillow and moans. “Oh, fuck yeah, you like that?” he asks from above him. Derek pushes back against him to answer.

He always leaves first. And on the last night they meet, Derek feels painfully empty after he pulls out. They never cuddle or share any afterglow thoughts, they just… go. When he picks up his jacket, something falls out of his pocket. He doesn’t notice. He leaves.

Derek picks it up later, it’s a nametag. “Deputy Parrish.”

**6\. “A Raindance in Traffic” – The Wonder Years**

_“I’m fanaticizing about doing a raindance in traffic. / I’m fanaticizing about a storm to wash me away. / Well if you’d study the laugh-lines, you’d see that I’m cracking.”_

“You seem better lately,” Derek’s mother says, smiling kindly at him as she smoothes her hand through his hair. “How’s school?”

“It’s great,” Derek answers simply.

Her smile widens. “Good. Your father would be so proud of you, honey.”

He has a smile plastered on and he nods. He pictures his face on a giant canvas with this stupid smile on and he imagines destroying it. Throwing paint at it, digging a knife into it and ripping it down the middle, blacking out his own teeth and shading in a unibrow.

“Cora said you got her a Burberry raincoat and a ticket to London for her birthday, that was very sweet of you.”

Derek drops the fake smile. “It was nothing,” he mumbles.

“It wasn’t nothing,” his mom reassures him, placing a warm hand on his. “Your sisters love you.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you love them.”

“Uuuh huh.”

She rolls her eyes at him and sighs. There’s affection in it. “You look handsome,” she says. She’s trying for something. It’s Derek’s turn to roll his eyes.

“No, you do. Amelia’s back from school for the summer, you should take her out—“

“I don’t like girls.”

“Hm. Well, I heard that the new deputy is g—“

“No. Mom. No.”

“You’ll have to start dating again someday.”

“No.” She sighs again and frowns and it’s a glimpse of the same old worry. He wants to hug her and tell her he’s fine. He wants to tell her that right now he’s just going through the motions and that he’s getting better every day but he’s not ready for that shit, he’s not ready for it, he’s not…  he’s not falling apart, really. “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” she says softly and gives him a tight, small smile as if to test the waters.

“I promise,” he says and kisses her on the cheek.

**7. “Charlie Black” – Modern Baseball**

_“Wait a minute, ‘cause I’ve been living / More like a fucking king without you / And I’ve been spending all your past killings / On a bunch of shit that I won’t use.”_

Derek buys a new place close to the preserve and the fresh, pine scented air is a huge improvement. He buys furniture for it too. He had  _plans_  for it.

And he’s headed toward graduation with a few honors attached and he got into Hastings with astounding ease and everyone is so damn proud and happy and you know what, alright. So is he. He’s doing just fine. He’s damn good.

It’s been two years and he can safely say that he’s over it. Yep.

**8\. “Timmy Bowers” – Modern Baseball**

_“Wait a minute, ‘cause I’ve been feeling / More like a piece of shit without you / And I’ve been spending all your past killings / Trying to drink my way out of this groove.”_

But sometimes…

He drinks by himself in his brand new house and wow Stiles would fill this place out so nicely. He would. Scott would probably always have at minimum three abandoned pairs of shoes in their entryway. Stiles would probably let Lydia call them an interior designer who would make the place beautiful and  _theirs_. There would be platinum records on the wall and pictures of all of them and framed magazine covers. Their bed would never be made because Stiles sucks at keeping beds made and Derek loves messing up the bed with him anyway so he never minded.

The first thing he does to unpack the house is set up the sound system when he’s still only one or two drinks into the night. Once it’s ready, he sets the same old playlist to repeat and drinks as it plays through, once… twice, three times, four…

In the breaks in between songs, it’s so quiet he can hear crickets chirping and frogs croaking and wind rustling through the trees. That same wind slips in through his windows and curls around him and makes the curtains sway.

In the breaks in between songs, he imagines Stiles’ voice as he’s unable to stop singing along even when the music is over.

He keeps drinking until he falls asleep.

**9\. “The Wolves (Act I and II)” – Bon Iver**

_“With the wild wolves around you / In the morning, I’ll call you.”_

After Derek gets to hold Scott, bury his nose in Lydia’s hair, talk to Isaac, argue with Jackson like old times and tease Boyd in New York… he goes back home and he tries to let that fill him up. He never wants to forget what it’s like to be near them ever again, despite all limitations.

When Lydia texts him from the road, he smiles for hours. When Scott emails him a detailed list of things that had happened in the past two years just as Derek had requested, he reads it over and over again.

About a week after he saw them, he gets a message from Lydia that’s just an unfamiliar phone number. He sends a simple “?” back.

“It’s Stiles’ current number. Do whatever you want with it.”

Derek saves it. And he doesn’t use it.

**10\.  “Lack of Color” – Death Cab for Cutie**

_“And when i see you / I really see you upside down / But my brain knows better / It picks you up and turns you around.”_

Derek is pretty sure Stiles is awake. He can tell by his breathing. He hates that he can still tell by his breathing. He hates that he can hear his breath from his bunk. He loves… he  _loves_  that he can hear his breath from his bunk and that he still knows it.

He just fought with him. Kinda. There was yelling. They yelled at each other. And that was… so much better than not seeing him. That was so much better than not talking to him.

And he’d touched him. He’d grabbed his arm and held his wrist and Stiles was feral and furious and like a stranger to him, but he was still Stiles. Wounded and raw and Stiles. Derek wonders distantly what the last two years were like for him. Wonders if he was just as fucked as Derek had been.

_“I should have given you a reason to stay…”_

“You have me,” Derek had whispered to him and it looked like Stiles had believed him. He stared up at him and Derek stared back and he felt like he… no, he  _knew_  that he still knows him. 

Stiles rolls above him and lets out a sigh. Derek regrets that he can’t touch him. He regrets that he can’t pull him into the back lounge and talk to him until he falls asleep against his chest.

He needs to sleep or he’ll be dead of exhaustion and over-exertion in the morning. He can’t just listen to his ex-lover not sleep all night. He puts on his headphones and hits play without thinking. Song 10 out of 10 starts playing and it rocks him to sleep.

_“This is fact not fiction / For the first time in years.”_


	10. 2014-2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek in the in-between
> 
> [Tumblr Post](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/95310348824/2014-2016)

“You should take some time off to recover,” Laura tells Derek softly, looking at him with clear-cut concern from across the table.

“I’m fine,” he says, smacking the edge of the deck of cards a little too hard against the table. He cuts them in half again and shuffles. He’s not fine. Fuck, he is so not fine. He’d called Laura in a state of pure panic the night before, unable to fully catch his breath, and begged her to come home for the weekend. He must have sounded pretty broken, because here she was. Cora and his mother were talking and laughing in the kitchen, waiting for the popcorn to finish. Derek wished he could feel the same warmth they so obviously did, but all he felt was empty.

“You called me near tears last night to beg me to come home, you are not fine.”

“I wasn’t near tears.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You’re not fine. You just quit your band and ended your career and your relationship with the person you love and last night, I don’t care what you say, you were freaking the fuck out. And now I come home and you’re enrolled in  _how many classes_?”

“Six.”

“ _Six_  classes.”

“It’s Beacon Hills Community, not Harvard,” Derek argues.

 

“Derek, you need a break,” Laura pleads with him. “You just spent three solid years touring, you need to just… sleep for a week and actually mourn this.”

The door leading into the kitchen swings open and Cora appears bearing a bowl of popcorn and a couple mugs of cocoa. “Mom let me add Baileys,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Are we telling Derek’s he’s an idiot?”

Laura gives her a severe look. “We’re telling him he needs to relax.”

“Girls,” their mother says, crackling with authority. She sets down the remaining two mugs and wraps her cocoa-warmed hands over Derek’s shoulders. “Be supportive.”

Derek’s staring at the wood grain on the table when his mom bends to hug him from behind. She kisses the side of his head and stays there for awhile. He catches Cora’s sympathetic look and Laura’s worried one and he sort of wants to just… lose it.

“Can we play or what?” Derek asks after clearing his throat. His mom pats his chest and pulls away.

**

Stiles would love this class. He would absolutely love it. Derek knew because he had to buy a new copy of Big Sur seeing as how Stiles had commandeered it years ago. They would also be reading Into the Wild and Heart of Darkness and Lord of the Flies. That boy had something that was hardwired to resonate with things like this.

He can’t sleep the first night after class. He thinks he enjoyed school. He thinks he enjoyed the different pace from the community college. The rigor, the greater prestige, the tougher classes. He pours over Big Sur and it doesn’t hurt that much, really. It feels distant from him, like it belongs to someone else entirely. He highlights important things and beautiful sentences and he writes notes in the margins. He makes it to the other side of three a.m. and is firmly into the second half of the book when he reads, “Lying mouth to mouth, kiss to kiss in the pillow dark, loin to loin in unbelievable surrendering sweetness so distant from all our mental fearful abstractions it makes you wonder why men have termed God antisexual somehow.”

And that’s when he feels Stiles so close to him it’s almost like he’s actually there. He can picture him pulling the book out of his hands and sliding naked into his lap and reading it out loud to him. He can hear his voice wrapping around the letters and giving them life.

Derek folds the corner of the page over and closes the book and sets it down on and gives up for the night.

He contemplates dropping the class.

**

Cora’s over, stretched out across the entire length of Derek’s couch and staring placidly at the TV.

“Please tell me you paid attention in stats,” Derek asks her, looking up from his homework.

She grunts.

“You took stats, right?”

“AP.”

“Great, so please help me.”

She grunts again.

“Then go home.”

“No, mom’s friends are there and they’re all cackling and I can’t handle it.”

“If you help me, I’ll…” He pauses to think. What could Cora be bought with? “I’ll buy you something, I don’t know, fuck.”

She pokes her head over the back of the couch to look at him, unimpressed.

“Please?” he asks again. Her ability to see his desperation must do it, because she gets up with a sigh and sits next to him at the table.

“I only got a three on the AP test, just so you know,” Cora tells him, pulling his book toward her. “Why do you even need to take this? Laura said college is a wonderful place where you can carefully avoid math if you want to.”

“I’m an economics major, it’s a departmental requirement.”

“You are? Why?” She sounds disgusted. Derek fights the urge to feel disgusted about it too.

So she drops it and helps him and Derek feels like understanding is just outside the fringes of his mental capacity for the day. The more he fails to grasp it, the harder Cora tries and he feels… overwhelmed. And exhausted. He drops his head onto the table and groans.

“Didn’t you take calculus in high school? Aren’t you supposed to be decent at math?” Cora asks, sounding cautious but sympathetic.

A wave of hurt crashes over him. “Lydia tutored me.” Cora doesn’t say anything. “Lydia took stats for fun, skipped class all the time and still got a 5 on the AP test.“

And he misses her. He misses her so much. He’d seen her in a magazine over a girl’s shoulder in front of him in a lecture two days ago. He missed her then too. And missing her leads him to slowly letting himself realize how much he misses Scott. God he misses him. And he tries his hardest, every time, to stop it there, to focus on that. To focus on missing those two. But it still hits him like a brick in the back of the head. It hits him so hard he gets the breath knocked out of him and his vision blurs out and he feels like he’s dying.

Cora wraps herself around him and presses her forehead to the side of his head and they stay that way for awhile. Derek hurting, Cora hanging onto him for dear life. Over time, he forces his muscles to relax with shuddering breaths. When he’s finally limp and listless on the table, Cora kisses his cheek.

“Hey, let’s go buy me something,” she says, tugging at his arm. “Even though I didn’t actually help you.”

“You helped,” Derek disagrees, letting her drag him out of his seat.

**

Derek had willingly passed by the girl who had been giving him hundreds of signals – brunette, leggy, totally beautiful – and gave one of the guys at her table the most charming smile he could. “Hey.”

“Hi,” he answered, eyes flicking to his friend who stood beside Derek with her mouth hanging open.

He lured him away from the table, learned his name and promptly forgot it, and tried to like the feeling of his hands on his hips on the dance floor. This was Danny’s doing. This was his presence itself reaching out and influencing Derek. This was the fact that he’d just spent two months on the road with Smokes and the fact that he only spoke about it in terms of Jackson and Boyd and cities and technological mishaps. If Derek didn’t know better, he’d think the band wasn’t there at all.

The last guy Derek had slept with was too short, but his build was almost right. And the guy before that had similar bright eyes, but they weren’t as light. And the guy before that was all wrong, physically, but his voice was pretty close. And before that he looked like he could have been related and the one before that had the same fox-like grin and the one before that… And Derek felt disgusting every time. This guy, though, the one at the table with the girl Danny had pointed out, was totally different. He had a golden tan and a curly mop of blond hair and a shy smile. He wore an Abercrombie and Fitch shirt and loose fitting jeans and there was nothing about him that reminded him of Stiles, nothing at all. Not his voice, not his shoulders, not the way his lips slid against Derek’s, nothing.

Derek gets him on his knees in no time, doesn’t even hear him panting over the loud music piped into the men’s bathroom, comes down his throat without a warning and doesn’t feel guilty about it. The guy wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and shoots a wicked smirk up at Derek before standing and kissing him again.

Derek doesn’t feel bad about leaving Danny to go back to the guy’s place afterward either. The way Danny looks at him when he tells him where he’s going means he’s going to have to explain himself later, which is fine.

When he heads out to his car afterward, the night bleeding into morning, the air soft and cold on his flushed skin, moving in currents around him where someone else’s hands had just been… He feels fine. When he gets into his car and turns it on, the radio immediately starts playing Girl. Again. It was everywhere. And he suddenly feels gutted. He turns the station and hears Fall Out Boy. He turns to NPR and hears a replay of All Songs Considered and they’re talking about Smokes.

**

He’s so exhausted by the time he graduates that he doesn’t even care. He doesn’t go to the ceremony, he begs his mom not to organize anything in honor of it, he doesn’t send out announcements or tweet about it or anything. He doesn’t care. He so doesn’t care.

He sits in the car after his last final and stares at his hands on the steering wheel and wonders where the last couple of years went. Aside from countless papers and endless hours and thousands of pages read and hundreds of tests taken and more nights lying awake in bed wishing he was anywhere else and waking up hugging his pillow to his chest wishing it was a someone specific instead… Aside from all that, nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

His LSAT scores, though, those had been spectacular. He’d gotten into George Washington and USC and Hastings. Hastings had been The Plan all along, so he didn’t actually have a choice.

He should be happy.

He should feel proud.

But he’s just tired.

He calls Laura to tell her he’s finished, because he might as well tell someone.

“And now you have a summer off?” she asks. “Like a real summer off?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Good question. He’d just bought a new house. Maybe something with that. “Finish moving. Unpack.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should travel. I have a show in New York in August and you should absolutely come to that. And you haven’t gone to the cabin in Tahoe in a million years. And—“

“I don’t want to travel.” He’d done enough traveling in his life.

“Okay well you still need to come to New York…”

“I will.”

“Good. You could… pick up a hobby? I can teach you how to paint? You could work out with Cora? She’ll be home from school soon. Mom’s talking about remodeling the downstairs bathroom? What’s Danny doing?”

“Danny’s touring.”

“Oh. Really? Because I thought their tour doesn’t start until July?”

Derek squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on responding evenly. “He’s out with a different band.”

“Oh. Sorry, I… sorry.”

Derek huddles over the steering wheel and breathes and hates that he still feels so raw about this. He’d made progress, he really had. He only found out about their new album because he heard the new single on the radio and liked it. (“And that was Beacon, the first single off of Smokes for Harris’ third album, coming out next week. I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait—“ Derek punched the preset button for NPR and listened to them talk about the Congress instead.) And he dutifully bought it and listened to it all the way through and liked it and shoved the CD into a box and the box into the closet and there. He did his part. And Lydia had a spread in Maxim and she looked great. And Derek had run into Scott’s mom at the Starbucks by the hospital and she hugged him and he felt loved and he didn’t ask about Scott and she didn’t say anything about him either. And he’d finally stopped hiding from the Sheriff every time he saw him at the grocery store.

Maybe he just feels extra vulnerable today.

“I was thinking of seeing them,” Laura confesses. “Either in New York or Beacon Hills.”

“New York?”

“Yeah, their uh… their tour stop is the same weekend as the opening… And New York is a massive city, so don’t you dare let that keep you from coming. This is my first huge opening and I want you there.”

“Okay.”

“We could go together if you wanted… I mean, they’re playing Madison Square Garden, you wouldn’t be noticed if that’s what you’re worried about. You would definitely be spotted at the hometown show…”

“I’m not going to see them.” Madison Square Garden, wow… He hopes Stiles has someone to ground him and see him through that. He’s nervous just thinking about the prospect of it.

“Okay.”

“But you can.”

She sighs. “Alright. I think Cora wants to go too…”

“Then you two can go.”

“Okay… their new album is so good, Derek, have you—?”

“Yeah.”

She’s quiet for awhile and Derek is quiet too. He wants the summer to be over already. He just wants to be back in classes. He just wants to be busy again. “I should get on the road before traffic…” Derek says finally.

“Alright, drive safe, brother.”

**

Derek’s been hesitating for fifteen minutes now. His body is stiff, the hand his phone rests in shakes ever so slightly. Cora looks at him with her eyebrow raised. The hotel room they’re sharing feels way too small and stuffy.

“Call them,” she demands. He’s still not totally over the revelation that she still talks to them sometimes. He’s still not over the implication that she and Stiles text occasionally. He’s still trying not to beg for his number. He refuses to. He won’t. He still hasn’t actually saved Lydia’s number in his phone, it’s just… all typed in and ready to go but he can’t. He can’t even hit the green phone icon to place the call.

“Are they okay? How are they doing?” he asks, voice shaking.

“They’re fine, I think. Call them and find out yourself.”

“They don’t want to hear from me,” he says, throwing his phone onto the bed before he starts pacing.

“What’s the worst that could happen? They don’t have time to grab drinks? They’re a little stiff on the phone? Just do it.”

No. The worst that could happen is… Derek sinks onto the bed and hides his face in his hands. The worst that could happen is utter devastation. Derek’s been trying so hard… It’s been two years, he really can’t still feel this way…

Cora mutters as she snatches Derek’s phone up and throws it at his back. “Just do it! Or I’ll do it!”

He rears back and shoves her away before she can grab his phone again. They fight over it for a second and in the scuffle, he hears muffled ringing on the other end.

“Shit.”

Cora cackles and shoves the phone against the side of his head.

“Derek?” Lydia asks, voice unsteady and desperate when she finally picks up.

“Lyds…”

“Oh my god, you’re in New York and you’re calling me and… Derek, I haven’t heard your voice in… are you coming tonight? You should come tonight.”

Derek’s face is wet and his eyes are stinging. Cora wraps her arms around him from behind and sets her chin on his shoulder.

“No, I’m not… I um… I’m sorry. I…”

“That’s fine, we’re here for a few days, I just want to see you. Can I see you? Even if it’s just for a minute…? And Scott and Isaac are going to want to see you too, they really are, I promise. So… can we?”

“Yeah,” Derek breathes. “Yeah, if you want to.”

“I do, I really do. If you do… but if you don’t, I mean…”

“I want to,” Derek says quickly, impatient to see them again. And he wants to ask about Stiles. But he doesn’t. And she doesn’t mention him either. And that hurts, but the promise of seeing the others again… that feels too good to let the bad eclipse it.


	11. November 2016 - Beacon Hills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After their first night together in Beacon Hills after the European tour. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr Post](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/139313537569/lol)

Stiles wakes up to Derek’s elbow pressing into the soft part of his belly. He would move away from it, reorganize their limbs, if every part of him didn’t ache. Ache from the drive, from sleeping on Scott’s too-soft guest bed, from months of tour buses and not enough sleep and constant motion… For the first time in what feels like decades, at least, Stiles is comfortable. As long as he doesn’t move. Except for the elbow. 

Stiles listens to Derek’s breath and let’s awareness sink into him. Derek’s bed feels the same as it had. A perfect marriage of firm and yielding, piled with blankets and pillows, smelling of his laundry detergent and now their sweat. Stiles thinks he even recognizes the sheets from before, white and off-white striped, the cotton worn soft and smooth with two extra years. 

He looks around the room as much as he can without moving. Blank white walls, vaulted ceilings with wooden beams, a ceiling fan, cobwebs in the corners from two months in Europe. His room is little more than utilitarian, the only signs of life being crumpled receipts on the dresser and a hastily folded blanket on the arm of an arm chair. 

Stiles remembers the loft. The overstuffed antique leather couch, steel frame bookshelves, plush rugs to cover the cold hardwood he had put in. The bed placed irrationally in front of the huge wall of windows in the direct center of the place. Stiles tries to picture Derek really living in this beautiful house of his and can’t. 

Derek’s elbow pulls away and the bed dips as he turns. His fingers land soft as a feather on Stiles’ ribs and flutter down to his hip. Stiles squirms and smiles and rolls closer. Derek catches him in his arms and kisses him on the nose. 

“Good morning,” he says in the most unintentionally sexy gravel Stiles has ever heard. 

“Morning, babe.” Stiles wriggles his arms up between their chests and smoothes his thumbs over the dark circles under Derek’s eyes. 

“What time is it?”

Stiles shrugs. There’s pure white light filtering in through the blinds but Stiles has no idea where this room is in relation to the sun. 

“How’d you sleep?”

“Good. You?”

“Good.” Derek’s cheeks rise under Stiles’ palms as he smiles. Stiles’ heart flutters. 

“Are these the same sheets your mom got you for the loft?” Stiles asks instead of the thing he almost said. Derek nods, breathing out a laugh. 

Stiles’ back is stiff, his hair feels dirty, his dick is waking up more and more the longer he’s pressed against Derek. Derek doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Can we shower? I feel gross." 

Derek nods and unravels from Stiles. He stands, the sheets falling away from him and revealing glory. Stiles feels his face heat up. It feels so innocent and real and beautiful to see his skin in the light of day, at home, his body casual and slow and comfortable. Derek quirks an eyebrow and a smirk over his shoulder at Stiles before he heads through a partially open door and flips on a light. Stiles sits up slowly, muscles protesting. Water turns on in the other room and Derek reappears in the doorway, waiting for him. Stiles feels the need to sing well up in his chest. His fingers itch to touch a guitar or Derek. He stands and lets the feeling fuel him toward the bathroom. 

The bathroom looks newly renovated. Sleek and cutting edge mixed in with earthy colors. Derek sits on the edge of a tub and pulls Stiles closer so he can wrap his arms around him and kiss his chest. Steam From the shower slowly fills up the room. 

In the shower, Derek gets Stiles to sit on a stone ledge and drops to his knees. Stiles wipes water away from Derek’s eyes and massages his shoulders as he swirls his tongue around him and kisses him. Derek gets Stiles so close to coming but stops to stand and pull Stiles up with him. Stiles is quivering and speechless when Derek turns them to press Stiles against a wall and hitch his leg up. Stiles shudders and moans as Derek slides his wet fingers into him carefully, mindful of the night before. Stiles’ vision fails him when Derek finally presses up into him. 

They don’t bother to get dressed after the shower. They towel off and fall back into bed and Stiles falls back asleep with Derek curled around him.

When he wakes up, he has no idea what time it is. He hasn’t known all day. Derek is sprawled on his stomach, his hair dry and sticking up at hilarious angles. Stiles runs his fingers up and down his spine before leaning over him and nosing behind his ear.

“Food,” he says when Derek grumbles.

“Hm.”

“I’m going to order food,” Stiles clarifies, assuming Derek’s place is cleared out.

“Hm.”

Stiles grabs a pair of Derek’s pajama pants before he heads out toward wherever he left his phone. He takes in the parts of the house he’d ignored the night before. This place is nothing compared to the loft, Stiles wishes he could shake that. Sure, the loft was the home of a young artist and it was ridiculous in its own way, but this place is sterile. Nothing on the walls, no personal touches. Stiles hates to think about Derek succumbing to numbness. It hurts in the same way it hurts to remember his own mourning and rehab and therapy.

He stares out the window at the tree line waving in the wind. He takes a deep breath and lets himself picture this place as a home. He closes his eyes and imagines couches covered in throw blankets and pictures on the walls and awards on the shelf. He pictures a piano in the corner and shoes in the doorway. And in the middle of all of it, it’s him and Derek hosting dinners with their families or writing songs late into the night or arguing over who has to do the dishes.

This stay is supposed to be temporary. Stiles doesn’t want to put too much stress on this new thing by instantly moving in together. He doesn’t want to feel like an intruder. He doesn’t want to seem desperate. But it’s way too easy to picture himself making this his home.

He finds his phone and orders pizza and answers texts while he waits. Derek eventually emerges from the room, wrapped in a blanket.

“You’re naked under that, aren’t you?” Stiles asks, smiling at him as he joins Stiles on the couch.

“Definitely.”

“Food should be here soon. Allison says our interview with Marin broke some ratings record for MTV and Scott is already abusing my residence in Beacon Hills, he wants me to send him cookies from some place by the hospital, I’ve never even been there.”

“Crumbs? We should go.”

“Well, looks like we have to. And I guess I should see my dad at some point, not today but… you know. And I should probably actually take this house hunt seriously, because my dad will slowly start to throw my shit out if I don’t move it I’m pretty sure…”

“Just move it here,” Derek says, his tone uncertain.

“Nah, I don’t want to clutter your place up.”

Derek gestures around at the mostly empty living room. The whole house is empty. “I don’t care about that.”

“Oh. Well. Maybe. But I’d rather not have to move twice, you know?”

“You don’t have to move twice, you can just move the one time.”

Oh. Stiles takes a deep breath and holds it. He’d wanted Derek to ask him to move in, he’d wanted to just avoid the question altogether and see how long he could stay. But what if it’s too much proximity too soon?

“Unless you don’t want to,” Derek says, looking down at his hands.

“I do want to, but what if we fuck it up? What if you get sick of me?”

“I never get sick of you.”

Stiles still has to remind himself that their breakup hadn’t been what he thought it was, that Derek had never wanted to quit him.

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, but I reserve the right to move out if I think it’ll save us from killing each other.”

Derek’s self-conscious focus on his hands softens and a slight smile curves his lips. “Okay, deal,” he says, looking up. Derek knows he’s won. If Stiles ignores the fear, he knows they’ll be fine. It’s been a long time coming, Stiles feels weirdly confident in their endurance. Stiles feels weirdly strong enough.

“What’d you order?” Derek asks after a couple seconds of comfortable silence.

“Pizza. Jalapenos and pineapple on one for you, you sick fuck, and pepperoni on the other.”

“Ah, you remembered,” he says, leaning against Stiles’ shoulder. “Romance is alive and well.”

Stiles turns his head to kiss him on the forehead. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I hope you’re ready to welcome way too many guitars into your home, because that’s what lies ahead.”

“They can hang out with my basses.”

“What if they get attached?”

“Then we have to stay together for them.”


	12. December 2016 - Beacon Hills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr Post](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/102483304229/oh-wow-another-b-side-i-love-not-having-to-title)

On their way back to the car and halfway through an argument outlining the pros and cons of the new coffee shop, Derek stops dead in his tracks and sloshes hot tea over his hand without even flinching.

“What? Did I astound you with my logic?” Stiles asks, slowing to a stop and turning to face him.

“Huh? No, there’s no reason for two bait and tackle shops in this town.”

Stiles takes Derek’s cup, sets both down on top of the Jeep and pulls Derek’s hand toward him. “Be careful then.” He hardly starts to wipe the tea off his hand with his sleeve when Derek aggressively grabs his hand and twines their fingers together. “Wha..?” Derek cuts him off with an inexpert kiss.

Stiles twists a little to get a look at where Derek’s eyes had previously fallen before this and… “Uh, hi… there, officer,” Stiles says, pulling away.

A set of stunning green eyes looks him over, his face flushed pink, lips parted in surprise. Stiles doesn’t recognize him, but the name rings a bell. Parrish. One of dad’s favorite deputies.

Derek tries to hide his face in Stiles’ neck and it’s… really weird. Stiles pushes at him until he reluctantly separates.

“Hi… I um… sorry… didn’t… uh…” he stutters, looking at Derek in a weird sort of way.

“No worries. You work with my dad,” Stiles says, trying to jar them out of the weirdness.

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

“I’m Stiles.”

“Yeah. I’m Parrish. Jordan. Uh. Jordan Parrish. Deputy…”

“Right. Nice to meet you.”

Derek is sort of stuck to the spot but he’s looking at his phone in an attempt to look casual.

“And this is Derek.”

“Yeah. We’ve met.”

Derek stiffens and looks up, forcing a smile of sorts. “Oh yeah, right, hey. How’s it going?” he asks in a bizarre fake-friendly tone.

“Good. Um. You’re in a band. I’ve heard. I mean, I’ve heard you’re in a band. And I’ve heard your band. And… I hadn’t known, heh. So um.”

“I… yeah. I mean, I wasn’t. At the time. But.”

“Yeah, right, I… heard. That. From the Sheriff, your dad.” Parrish gestures to Stiles as if the clarification is needed. “And you two. Are.” He waves his hand at them.

“Yeah.”

Stiles looks between them, notes the dodgy eyes and slight flushes in their cheeks and… oh. OH.

“Oh my god,” Stiles splutters before cracking up.

“What?” Derek asks, turning to face him, cheeks even redder than before.

“You two know each other, huh?” Stiles asks, wicked smile plastered on. He picks up his coffee and starts heading around to the driver side.

“No, not really,” Parrish assures him, looking a little guilty.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Stiles asks, throwing just enough suggestion into it. He unlocks the Jeep and climbs in. “C’mon, Der. I’ll tell you about some of my conquests when we get home if it’ll make you feel any better.”

“God,” Derek mutters, reaching for his cup. “Sorry,” he says to Parrish, much less stiff now that Stiles has acknowledged their shared history. “Nice to see you.”

**

Derek buries his face in his hands and keeps it there until the first red light.

“You’re ridiculous,” Stiles tells him. “Good for you, though, he’s a good looking dude.”

“Shut up.”

“Top or bottom?”

“Both.”

“Niiice.” 

Derek huffs and turns to look out the window, but Stiles’ hand closes around his wrist and drags him over to rest on Stiles’ leg. He has a satisfied smirk on when Stiles let’s go to keep on driving and he stays there.

“I’m not going to ever be mad or jealous or weird about any of your past fucks, Derek,” he tells him. “I really didn’t assume you went all celibate.”

“Good to know,” Derek says, squeezing his thigh. He thinks distantly about scores of anonymous hands on Stiles. Lips and tongues working their way over him. He’s surprised that he doesn’t even feel jealous at the thought. “Uh, same goes for you.”

“Good,” Stiles says softly. “Becaaause I mean, I’m kind of curious. About… what you were up to. And… if that’s weird, then you don’t haaave to…”

“You really want to talk about this?”

“Aren’t you curious too?”

“Not really.”

Stiles rolls his head along the headrest to look at him. “Seriously?”

“Models, actor types, musicians, am I right?” Derek asks. He can feel curiosity stirring in him…

Stiles grins. “I mean, there have been some iiiinteresting hook ups.”

“Are you trying to make me jealous?”

“I’m trying to get you as horny as possible because I really honestly can’t stop picturing you and Deputy Hot-Ass fucking and let me tell you… it’s a nice picture.”

Derek trails his hand further up his thigh for that and leans over to kiss his neck. Stiles murmurs contently and turns up the driveway to the house. “Soo… what’s the verdict?”

“I’m curious.” Derek pulls away to fall back against his seat. “Conversation for another day.” He waits for Stiles to park before adding: “Feel free to continue picturing Deputy Hot-Ass and me, though.” He caps it off with a wolfy grin and gets out of the car.

“My boyfriend gets off on being withholding,” Stiles yells after him. “At least help with the groceries!”

And if it weren’t for how sweet the word “boyfriend” feels when Stiles applies it to him, he might have left him to handle the bags all by himself. He rounds the Jeep and pushes him against the still-closed trunk to kiss him.

“Keep calling me boyfriend and you’ll get all the help you need,” he mumbles against his lips.

“I like this arrangement.”

“So do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oy


	13. 2017 - Grammys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr Post](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/103842438034/happy-birthday-girl-ummm-prompts-i-kind-of)

Stiles watches Lydia’s hair and makeup people work their magic while she chats amicably with them like she’s known them forever. And maybe she has. Stiles has never really been here for this part of award show preparation. But he’s too nervous to wander off to the hotel bar like usual.

And yet, a cool tumbler wet with condensation is pressed into his hand, followed by a strong arm wrapping around his waist. “Ginger Ale,” Derek says, kissing the side of his head.

“And?” Stiles asks, leaning into his touch.

“Scotch.”

“Mmmhm,” Stiles murmurs, lifting the tumbler to his lips.

“For your stomach and your nerves.”

“So considerate,” Stiles says after swallowing.

They’ve been to the Grammys before. They’ve been to Grammy parties and they’ve even performed as part of a tribute to another band. And they’ve been shortlisted for nominations too, for Tempest and Fingerprints. But this is a whole new game. This is…  _actually_  nominated (multiple times…) and performing their own song and… god. Derek must sense that he’s thinking about it again because he lightly bites down on the shell of Stiles’ ear.

“Relax.”

Scott bounds into the room, his shirt buttons undone and a bright red lipstick print on his cheek accompanied by a sheerer smudge of red all over his mouth. Allison follows after, face hidden in her compact as she daintily applies a new coat of lipstick.

“Disgusting,” Stiles huffs. Derek laughs and squeezes his side before letting him go.

Allison closes her compact with a snap and a smile before going to the garment rack set up in the corner to get into her dress for the night. Lydia is released from the chair and skips to join her, gushing over the sparkling fabrics of their dresses.

Scott’s vibrating with excitement as the hair and makeup people converge upon him, working wax into his hair and dusting his face with powder. “This is the coolest. I thought performing on the Grammys was the coolest like two years ago, but I was wrong,  _this_  is the coolest.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, feeling his stomach twist. He tips the tumbler back and downs half the glass. The bright flavor of the ginger ale and the warmth of the Scotch mixes pleasantly in his throat and stomach. Derek’s always right. Stiles looks around the room to find him just in time to see him shrugging into his suit jacket.

The sharp black lines of his suit, perfectly tailored, and the cobalt blue of his shirt make for a fucking  _perfect_  picture. Stiles sets his glass down on the nearest table and moves toward him and traces the skin just above the clean line of his shirt collar.

“You look good,” Stiles tells him, running his palm over his stubbly jaw.

Derek ducks forward to kiss him. “So do you.”

**

Derek watches as Stiles poses by himself on the red carpet. His slim cut suit. bronze-hued shirt, barely tamed hair and sunglasses give him the perfect rock star aura. He smirks confidently at the cameras, flashing them brilliant white grins every once in awhile, and the people in the risers surrounding them cheer frantically every time he does. When he’s done, he steps to join Derek to wait for Scott and Lydia before they do their group shots.

“This is ridiculous,” Stiles whispers to Derek. Derek reaches for Stiles’ hand in answer.

Stiles grins up at him and swings their hands between them. He feels looser and calmer than he had in the hotel room. Derek fed him a couple more drinks before they were shuttled here, and they seemed to have done the trick.

Lydia joins them, her emerald green dress throwing flashes of light up into their eyes from where the sun hit the beading. “Who has the flask?” she asks, her voice shaking just a little despite how confident she looks.

Derek points to Scott, who is grinning with sparkling eyes over there in his crisp white shirt rolled up at the sleeves to reveal his tattoos.

They suffer through group shots and interviews and the lengthy seating process and waiting and by the time the ceremony starts, Stiles’ buzz has worn off and Derek’s actually getting nervous too. Lydia is shut down and wide-eyed. Allison rolls her eyes at them in between talking to other artists’ representation and other industry types. And Scott is a few rows back talking to another band like the social butterfly he is. Derek is pretty sure he’s not even nervous.

Stiles’ hand curls around Derek’s thigh and he leans closer. “We totally deserve this, right?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Like Fair/Unfair totally deserves this? We’re not hacks?”

“We’re not hacks.”

“And I mean, we’re not going to win album of the year, that’s just… we’re up against Beyonce so that’s not even a question. But. Song. We could actually win that.”

“Yeah, we could.”

“What about artist of the year, huh? Or record? Best rock performance?” Allison asks, leaning over Scott’s empty seat. Lydia stiffly turns her head to listen to them. “Everyone here thinks you’re stiff competition, so don’t think you aren’t.”

Stiles swallows and nods. Derek leans over to kiss him. “We need Scott’s flask,” Derek mumbles against his lips.

“There’s an actual bar here,” Allison points out. “I don’t know why you’re insisting on the flask.”

**

The performance is the easiest part of the night. Stiles can only be nervous about performing right up until he’s on the stage, and then it’s easy as breathing. Even with the overblown production called for by the occasion and the hours of rehearsal, Stiles still feels like it’s just a normal thing. And they sound great. The crowd reception, though difficult to gauge at these sorts of things, is enthusiastic. When they stand together at the edge of the stage with their arms around each other, Stiles feels like they’ve earned this.

When Rock Performance comes up, Stiles is so nervous he’s not even fully aware of what’s happening. He knows the camera’s on him, so he puts on his best front. Lydia’s hand is clutching his knee, her nails digging in. Derek and Scott are calm as fuck.

Stiles actually isn’t sure if he’s more horrified of the prospect of winning and having to talk on a stage or if he actually cares about winning or not. The 15 year old he used to be sneers in his head, argues that the Grammys are bullshit. Political and crooked and ignorant. The academy shows preference to tired pop or old favorites. Current Stiles kind of agrees. Smokes for Harris isn’t really a Grammy sanctioned sort of band. But he can’t deny how cool it would be to have one on his and Derek’s mantle. Two, technically. One for each of them. Wow.

They show a quick clip from each of the band’s respective music videos for their nominated songs and then…“And the Grammy goes to…” Lydia’s fingernails dig in deeper. “Fair/Unfair!”

Stiles would probably throw up if he wasn’t so aware that there was a camera on him. He finds himself standing, probably more because Derek and Lydia are pulling him up than because of his own legs. They make their way to the stage in a blur of loud clapping and cheering and people In the aisle reaching to congratulate them. Once they’re up there, they look at each other and realize that they hadn’t discussed the possibility of winning long enough to figure out who would accept.

Scott shoves Stiles toward the mic and Stiles pulls Derek closer.

“Hey, wow, thank you,” he says, voice shaking. And that’s really all he can think to say.

His band laughs at him and then Derek starts talking. He lists off production people and the label and their friends and their families and says something charming about the band itself and then they’re moving backstage.

Scott doubles over with laughter the second they’re clear. “Hey, wow, thank you,” he quotes, clutching his blank stand-in statue.

“Shut up,” Stiles says, punching him in the shoulder, laughing too. He drags him up by the arm and pulls him into a tight hug. “We’re Grammy Award winning artists,” Stiles says. Lydia squeezes her way into the hug and Derek encircles them from the outside.

They do the whole press-line thing afterward and then head back to their seats. And suddenly the pressure is off.

**

“I need so many drinks,” Lydia announces in the limo afterward. “SO many. I need… so many drinks.”

“Same,” Stiles mumbles, tugging at his tie before he can’t fight the grin anymore.

Allison reaches past Scott to ruffle Stiles’ hair while she kisses Scott on the cheek. Lydia grabs her hand and squeezes. Allison kicks Derek gently in the shin. “Aw, my multiple Grammy Award winning band,” she coos.

So they’d won best rock performance  _and_ album. And then best song, but not best record. And then they won best artist. Derek is pretty sure they hallucinated the whole thing.

Scott spoke for rock album. Lydia spoke for best song. They kept joking that they had to win at least one more so Stiles could redeem himself, but when it actually happened they were all beyond shocked.

Everyone else had already thanked pretty much everyone they could think of by the time Stiles had to speak, so he had stuttered for a second while he thought before launching into a speech about how Smokes for Harris had almost fallen apart before Derek came back and how much the band needed to be exactly how it is to survive and how important it was to all of them. It came across as honest and youthful and loving and humble. Or at least, that’s what the people in the interviews afterward had told them.

Derek can’t stop smiling. Stiles leans back against his chest, his body totally relaxed and Derek sighs into his hair. “We’re going to have to figure out a spot for 8 statues,” Derek tells Stiles.

“Fuck.”

“What a terrible problem to have,” Lydia teases.

“Honestly, I can’t believe the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences would do us like this,” Scott agrees, shaking his head sadly.

“Don’t let it go to your heads,” Allison says. “You guys are officially sell outs. Posers. Mainstream. Totally lame. And critics are going to hold you to a tooootally new set of standards so the rest of your albums will probably be critically panned and publically hated.”

“Aw, Ally, you’re the best manager a band could ask for,” Stiles purrs.

 


	14. 2017 - Tattoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' only tattoo :)
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr Post](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/103905706209/if-youre-still-taking-prompts-because-youre)

Stiles eyes the tattoo shop and everything in it with nothing but fear. Scott puts his hands on his shoulders and jostles him back and forth.

“You’re becoming a man!” Scott says. “You’re finally, actually joining us on this journey and I’m so proud.”

“If I throw up, I’ll be aiming for you,” Stiles threatens, pointing emphatically.

Derek snorts and steps ahead of them to approach the front desk. He leans against the counter top and the pierced, tattooed girl working preens and flirts at him.

“We’re here for Saul,” Derek tells her.

Her eyes light up with recognition. “Oh, you’re that band. I’ll let him know you’re here.” She gives Derek one last longing look before disappearing into the back. Stiles narrows his eyes at her retreating back.

“Saul’s really good,” Derek says, turning to face him.

“He’s done most of my work. He’s who we went to when we got our bands,” Scott adds, tapping his left arm. Derek nods.

“I’m here, you don’t have to convince me anymore,” Stiles snaps. Lydia steps closer and pulls his arm around her shoulder.

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Derek says for the hundredth time. Stiles searches his face for teasing or amusement or anything that would make Stiles mad, but all he finds is an open, soft expression.

And the longer he looks at Derek, the more he wants the tattoo. He squeezes Lydia and takes a deep breath. “I want to.”

Derek smiles.

Yeah, he definitely wants this.

A man who Stiles assumes is Saul comes back with the girl and greets Derek and Scott with big bear hugs.

“You two need touch-ups?” he asks, holding the door to the back open for them. He nods at Stiles and Lydia politely as they pass.

“Actually, yeah,” Scott says, holding his arms up to look at them, touching at spots that… are presumably faded or something, Stiles wouldn’t know.

Derek glances down at his bands. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Saul nods thoughtfully, leading them past the rest of the stations and into a corner office of sorts. There are flash sheets and pictures of tattoos and drawings all over. Stiles is impressed by the work he sees.

“This is Lydia,” Derek says, ruffling Lydia’s hair. Saul shakes her hand. “And this one…” his hand settles on Stiles’ shoulder. “Is here for his first tattoo.”

“Right on!” Saul exclaims, reaching forward to shake his hand. “Stiles, right? Lead singer? Boyfriend?” He nods knowingly at Derek with that last bit.

Stiles returns the gesture with a smile. “Yeah, nice to meet you.”

“So what are you thinking?” Saul asks, turning away to assemble paperwork.

“Um…” Stiles looks up at a picture of an extremely intricate dragon inked across someone’s back and suddenly feels a little silly. “Actually, it’s really simple and a total waste of your talent… Simple, but not like bad? Just simple.”

Saul waves him off. “Nothing wrong with simple.” He sets a stack of paper down on the little table attached to the chair and gets a few sealed packages of needles or whatever the fuck out of a cabinet. “What is it?”

Stiles looks shyly over at Derek who is staring at a flash sheet with incredible focus, his cheeks a little flushed. Stiles reaches into his pocket and extracts a piece of paper with a triskele about a third the size of Derek’s printed onto it and hands it over.

“Ah,” Saul exhales after looking at it, grinning. “You guys are disgusting, Derek.”

Derek laughs and looks down at his feet. Stiles smiles over at him. Just looking at that nerd makes him so sure that he wants the tattoo.

“I feel like I should tell you I’m afraid of needles?” Stiles sort of squeaks.

Saul nods knowingly. “Tattoo guns are different, you’re not really going to see the needle and it’s not going to feel the same as the kinds of needles you’ve dealt with.”

And that’s… actually kind of comforting.

“Have you eaten recently?”

“Uh, these kids made me eat a couple hours ago.” Stiles points between everyone.

“Perfect.”

Scott, Derek and Lydia talk amongst themselves while Saul walks Stiles through the paperwork and gets an outline of the triskele placed on the outside of his right wrist. When it’s time to actually get started, Stiles reaches blindly behind him with his left hand until Derek’s fingers curl around his.

“You ready?” Derek asks, pulling a chair up so he can sit as close to Stiles as possible. Stiles nods, tightening his grip on Derek and leaning as much as he can get away with into Derek’s warmth. The tattoo gun starts whirring and then there’s a sharp prick of pain but… it’s not that bad. Stiles looks back at the process, craning his head so he can get a look. The needle moves so fast it’s just a non-threatening blur and a thin black curve is manifesting in its wake.

Derek softly “hey”s to get Stiles to look back over at him.

“Hey,” Stiles parrots back, brushing his lips against Derek’s.

“This is really cool of you, you know?” Derek says softly.

Stiles knows how much this tattoo, his first one, means to him. He’d gotten it shortly after turning 18, shortly after he and Stiles became whatever it was that they were, as a weird rebellious/reverent gesture to his family. Derek had explained it all to Stiles, who sat there in the parlor and watched in horror as the artist wiped ink and blood away every few seconds…

“It’s a family symbol, it’s on our crest.” He had paused long enough for Stiles to make fun of the fact that his family has a crest and then continued. “My dad had a small one on his chest. He said it meant family to him, like… father, mother, child. But it could mean anything you needed it to.”

“So what do you need it to mean?” Stiles had asked.

Derek looked at him, eyes going soft and sad. “Family… like, my parents, my sisters and uh… you guys.”

And at this moment, with his skin tingling in reaction to the bright pain of the symbol being carved into his own skin, it means Derek. His past with him, his present with him, his future with him. And him getting it means family to Derek. It means Stiles is taking something of him and permanently marking himself with it. It means Stiles is taking the symbol and all its history on. It feels almost mystical. Powerful. Comforting.

Stiles shrugs his left shoulder when he realizes he’s been staring wordlessly at Derek for too long. “I’m sort of into you, you know?”

“That’s good, or this would be awkward.”

Afterward, Derek sits on the floor and Stiles sits against him, in between his legs. Scott sits in the chair while his ink is touched up and Lydia casts affectionate glances their way throughout her conversation with Scott and Saul.

“How bad was it?” Derek asks, his hands gentle on Stiles’ arms.

“Not too bad.”

“So are you going to want more tattoos?”

“Nah, it’d have to be something reeeaally special to make me consider it.”

Derek hmms. Stiles can feel his heartbeat heavily in his burning wrist, the spot where the tattoo hides behind a gauze pad feels raw. He’s watched enough of Scott’s tattoos heal to know that it’ll get all raised and puffy and then it’ll start peeling and he’ll basically look sort of gross for a week or so, but when it’s done… When it’s done, Derek will be able to smooth his fingers over it and kiss it like Stiles has done to the triskele in between Derek’s shoulders thousands of times. And every time he grasps a mic, no one will be able to ignore its presence. It’ll always peek out of his sweater sleeves. Stiles will always roll up his shirt sleeves at events to make sure it’s visible. He didn’t want to even have the option to hide it. Not with what it means.

Stiles listens as Saul and Scott try to convince Lydia to get a tattoo of Scott’s face, smiling faintly. Lydia says she’ll do it if Scott gets a tattoo of her on his ass. When he agrees easily, she scrambles to retract her offer.

“I already have your name on me, why not your face?” Scott says.

“You do?” Lydia asks, voice softening.

“I have all your names on me,” Scott says, grinning.

“You do?” Stiles asks, pulling away from Derek to sit up straight.

“Yeah, you guys are my babes.”

“God, I hate you, you’re such a sap,” Lydia sighs.

“You’re all saps,” Saul mutters from where he’s bent over Scott’s arm.


	15. 2017 - A Heart Like You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jydia!
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr Post](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/179725639464/b-side-a-heart-like-you)

There’s a knock at the door but Lydia Martin is indecent. Underthings, hair in curlers, the whole deal. She checks her phone as if maybe the knocker had done the sensible thing and texted her first.

They knock again.

“C’mon, Lydia,” a masculine voice says, muffled by the door.

She tugs a bathrobe on and ties it closed at the waist. She pulls the door open but leaves the chain in place.

“Oh, it’s you,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

It’s Jackson, suitcase standing beside him and Nikes duffle bag over one shoulder. A couple road cases are lined up behind him. He sees her looking at them and shifts his duffle from one shoulder to the other almost as if its a nervous gesture.

“I can leave them in the garage,” he offers.

“Why’d you even bring them?” she asks.

“I was supposed to take them back to the rental place but…”

“But it’s late,” she says, eyeing her phone in a performative way. “Sure is.”

“Out of my hands, not my fault,” Jackson says, attitude seeping into his tone. A twitch at his clenched jaw tells Lydia he’s losing his patience. She doesn’t care.

She closes the door and hears him start working his way up to a blustery argument on the other side. She allows for a dramatic pause before unhooking the chain and opening the door again.

“Thank you,” he says, looking cowed.

She moves aside to let him in, tapping out a response to a text from Allison that didn’t strictly need a response at all. She wanted to look as disinterested as possible.

Well, she isn’t disinterested at all. In fact, her mind settles and her heart rate finally slows to a reasonable pace.

Jackson’s back in LA, back from tour. She knew he’d be back today but she’d started thinking he wouldn’t come… Well, she’s hesitant to call it “home,” but… it is what it is.

“Your stuff is in trash bags out there,” she calls to him as he wheels the road cases toward the door to the garage. “Feel free to take care of them how you see fit.”

He stops walking to shoot her a look but a case continues rolling without him and right into a wall. “Are you fucking serious?”

She isn’t. He reads that on her face and glares darkly at her. She shrugs and leaves him to it.

His stuff is all where he left it before the tour. Everything in its fastidious place, neatly folded and lined up and put in garment bags and wiped clean where it lives in one of Lydia’s guest rooms. HIs shampoo, conditioner, hair masks, pommades, oils, gel, etc etc etc forever and his poncy skincare collection safely in the attached bathroom. Well, all except–

“I used up your Crème de la Mer,” she tells him when he sulks into the living room. She takes a sip of wine, eyes trained on him.

“I figured you would,” he says as he drops onto the couch.

She carefully considers how to phrase the next thought and settles on, “But I bought us more.”

He looks at her and lifts an eyebrow. “Figured that too.”

She allows the next few minutes to pass in silence. Jackson’s head lolls against the back of the couch, the clock ticks, the dreamy girl rock she’d been listening to in her room continues to play. He looks exhausted. She can see the bags under his bright blue eyes now that she really looks at him. Lydia looks at her nails instead and starts to pick at her wine red manicure, chipping polish away with satisfaction.

When they finally speak, they speak at once –

“How was tour–”

“I missed you–”

“Oh,” Lydia says. Her heart hammers in her chest. She’s furious and hurt and glad.

He sits up and leans his forearms against his knees. “And I’m sorry.”

The apology stuns her. According to Lydia’s observations, Jackson seem to think he has a finite, limited supply of sorries bestowed to him upon his birth. Lydia would estimate maybe 20 altogether. They’re rare and flawless, precious. She never thought she’d hear one for this.

“About before,” he amends. He clears his throat. “I shouldn’t have…” He clenches his jaw and casts a look off toward the fireplace.

Before.

Before the tour when he said something he shouldn’t have.

Jackson had just been off with Isaac on tour for two months. And before that he’d been on tour with Smokes in Asia. Scott and Allison had been cozy all tour long. Stiles and Derek had tried their hardest to be inclusive but ultimately had also been absolutely nauseating. So it had been Lydia on her own. And then it had been Lydia, Danny and Jackson. And then it turned into something a little more Lydia and Jackson…

Lydia and Jackson staying up late talking and laughing. Lydia and Jackson dancing at clubs. Lydia and Jackson hugging and cuddling and standing close and Lydia wearing Jackson’s jackets and Jackson holding her hand to guide her through crowds. Lydia and Jackson kissing. Lydia and Jackson going to bed together. Jackson looking at Lydia the way he had back in high school, back when Lydia resolutely wasn’t looking at him.

Her greatest shame back then had been that she gave in. Once. Sober, but weak. Her parents had been fighting so she’d gone on a walk and found herself passing Jackson’s just as he was getting back from lacrosse. She always told herself she should’ve just called Stiles or Scott. They’d have been there in a second. They’d have asked her if she was okay, exchanged looks, assessed what she needed, and delivered with the beautiful accuracy they all demonstrated with each other. But she’d wanted to wallow.

And the second she’d seen Jackson, she’d wanted to make a bad decision.

She hadn’t wanted the real, simple, platonic love of her friends. She wanted a shallow, half-formed, near stranger to escape into. That’s how it had been back then. Either the warmth of her boys, safe and secure, or the heat of an outsider.

And with a body like Jackson’s, it’d been a great bad decision to have made. Other than the shame piece.

Back then, love was either easy or it didn’t exist. The equation was quite simple. If it was Scott, Stiles or Derek, it was as natural as breath and it was real. What her parents had for each other wasn’t, it was too complicated to be. And while sex was easy (the getting of it, the doing it, etc), it wasn’t love. Sex was biology and stimulation. Love was soul and connection and art.

She’d then come to the conclusion that a major component of being human was broken in her. Sex she could do, even enjoy. Friendship, she desperately depended on. Family, in the smallest of small doses. But romance? Never. She was fine without it. She didn’t want it. She never felt its stirrings. All she ever felt was the pressure to want to feel it and none of the actual want. She was fine on her own, an incomplete (by some societal standards) person but a strong one.

It’d taken her awhile to reject the concept that she was broken, but she had. Happily so. She wasn’t ever going to feel like one half of a whole, she was already whole. Romance was for people like Stiles and Derek, Scott and Allison.

But the goddamn Asia tour. Cradling Jackson’s head in her lap, his arms around her as they slept, the way Jackson touched her. At first, Lydia didn’t even notice the change. And then she hated it. And then she was confused. And then the tour was over and Jackson mentioned having to find a new apartment and Lydia, ever so rarely a fool, invited him to stay.

“Roommates,” she’d said.

“Sure,” Jackson has countered, smirking.

And yeah, his stuff stayed in the guest room. His room. But he himself stayed in Lydia’s.

The confusion was this: whatever this was wasn’t easy, natural as breath. And whatever this was, though complicated, felt kinda right. Seeing Jackson made her happy. But something still didn’t click how it seemed to click for other people.

And the sex was good.

“Are you going to say anything?” Jackson asks, voice cutting through her inner rambling.

“I don’t know what to say.”

He’s frustrated. That shows plain as day on his face. But to his credit, he keeps it in. “Fine. I guess I just had a lot of time to think while I was away…”

“And a lot of time to fuck other girls,” Lydia adds, testing the water.

He shoots her a look. “No.”

Hm. She believes him.

“And even if I did, could you be mad at me for it?”

“I can be mad for whatever reason I want,” she defends.

“Yeah, you sure fucking can, but I hope you see how that would be ridiculous and toxic and, honestly, borderline abusive. Considering.”

“Considering?”

“Considering I told you I loved you and you told me to get the fuck out of your house. You don’t get to demand loyalty or, or, or– I don’t fucking know, like exclusivity? We aren’t a couple, you made that super goddamn clear.”

He’s right. She hates that he’s right. His words are like a funhouse mirror that stretches and contorts her face into something ugly, something that exposes her for who she is. Or what she can be.

Toxic. Borderline abusive. He’s right.

“But you still didn’t…” she starts, unable to finish now that she’s facing down her own ugliness about it.

“No, I didn’t,” he says, soft.

She clears her throat and looks back at her nails with great feigned interest as her cheeks blaze. “So what did you think about then?”

She braces herself for the possibilities here. Maybe he’ll say, “I thought about it and I don’t love you at all, see: abusive and toxic.” Or maybe he’ll say, “You’ve had me running in circles since high school and I’m done.” Or maybe: “You’re all style and no substance and I can get a pretty girl who will actually want to fall for me just as easily.”

“I thought about how… I just can’t force you to be anything. And then I thought about how I like you how you are. And then I thought about what it would mean to just… find an arrangement with you? Meet you where you are? I don’t know. And then I had to think about whether or not I could be happy with the compromise and… “ he shrugs, wrings his hands, and falls silent.

Lydia’s hands are shaking a little. Meet her where she is?

Has anyone ever offered to meet her where she is?

Scott and Stiles always had, Derek too when he came around. The thought shimmers and tries to take a more solid form but she can’t let it.

“And what?” she asks, almost a whisper.

“And… I don’t know, I ran out of information. So. I wanted to talk about it. With you. If you want. If you accept my apology.”

“I… kicked you out for saying that you loved me,” Lydia reminds him. It sounds awful to her now. So ugly. She remembers how her heart had dropped into her stomach and her whole body froze and overheated at once and how she didn’t know how to classify how she felt so she’d settled on anger. Not even just anger, fury. Absolute, total fury. Because she’d told him before. She’d told him this wouldn’t turn into anything. She told him it was casual. She told him she wasn’t interested in him. And she thought he understood.

What an unfair assumption, she realizes.

Did she ever even explain herself to him?

He’s staring at her now, poised to get up and go if her last spoken sentence was a reminder that he shouldn’t be here but looking so hopeful too.

“That… fucking sucked of me,” she admits.

His lips twitch in an almost smile. “Yeah, didn’t feel great.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. She sets her phone down on the coffee cable and leans forward against her knees, mimicking him. “What information do you need?”

He looks surprised. “I guess I just… don’t know how you feel?”

She nods. She’s spent years figuring this out, explaining herself to Stiles and Scott when they asked, re-explaining to Derek when he was back, telling her parents, telling Allison, telling Erica even. The weirdest “coming out” a person could have, one that shouldn’t even be necessary because it’s no one’s business. But when people care… when she cares about those people back…

“I’m aromantic,” she says, studying Jackson’s face for reactions. “It’s not… me being callous or being a slut or trying to be edgy. It’s just how I am.”

“Okay,” he says. “So you don’t… feel love or…?”

“I feel love,” she disagrees. “Not the kind you want from me though.”

“So how do you feel about me?”

The thought solidifies a little more. She thinks of being met where she is, she thinks of the people who have always been so good at giving her what she needs, she thinks of the band. She thinks of their world, the people in it. Jackson has been a part of that for so long too, but somehow compartmentalized away in a different category. She thinks of Scott, Stiles, and Derek. Of sleeping in the same bed with all of them, safe and warm and full of love. And she so easily thinks of Jackson too. Jackson with his head on her chest, Jackson with his hands on her waist, Jackson with his stupidly prissy beauty routine, Jackson and his laugh.

“I care about you a lot,” she says. “And I like having you around.”

He’s unsure how to take that, she can tell.

“You know all those jokes you make about how my band is in love with each other? The ones you’ve been making since high school?”

“Yeah,” he says, uncertain about her change in direction.

“I love them in a way that I can’t love a lot of people.”

“Uh, okay?”

“I feel very similarly about you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I can’t give you the Rom Com ending.”

“So what can you give me?”

“Compromise. Exclusivity. Friendship. Sex. Closeness. A place to stay as long as you want. An arrangement as long as you want it, as long as it’s working for both of us. Understanding if you can’t do this.” She shrugs, all attempts at disinterest and nonchalance left behind.

“Do you want me like that?” Jackson asks.

She nods.

He considers her, rubbing at the light stubble on his jaw. The clock on the mantle ticks. It’s so late and this conversation is so serious…

“What changes for you if I say I have some strictly romantic feelings about you?” he asks.

She smiles despite herself. “I don’t mind it.”

“Yeah?” he asks, laughing. “Love being worshipped, huh? Typical celebrity.”

She laughs and stands. “Maybe I like that it’s you who has romantic feelings for me,” she says as she rounds the coffee table to go sit next to him. He pulls her down into his lap as she lowers herself.

“I like that you love me sorta like you love your fucking bandmates,” Jackson teases, voice dropping lower. He links his arms around her waist.

“You smell like a tour bus,” she tells him, lips hovering close to his.

“Is that a turn on for you?”

She laughs again. “No.”

“You look like a Golden Girl, who actually uses curlers?”

She laughs more. “Is that a turn on for you?” she teases, throwing his own words back at him.

“What if it is?”

“I missed you too, Whittemore,” she says softly before kissing him. “Welcome home, honey.”


	16. Early 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' dad has a (vaguely mentioned) health scare, Stiles is stressed, Derek asks about the OD. 
> 
> Warning: Former drug abuse and alcoholism discussed. I'm no expert but I TRY TO UNDERSTAND so I hope this isn't a shit way of looking at addiction issues. Plz don't read if that sounds like it could put you in a bad spot. <3

Stiles wrings his hands, jonesing for a cigarette. Or a drink. Or both at the same time, one in each hand. 

In fact…

“Where are you going?” Derek asks, voice a tired slur. 

“I need a nightcap,” Stiles says. He pulls the throw blanket he’d upset in standing back over Derek. “You should go to bed, I’ll meet you in a second.”

“Let’s talk about that.” 

Stiles turns to look back, halfway to the kitchen. In the gentle, golden light being cast by the single lamp lit in the living room, Derek looks like an angel. He sits up, the throw blanket pooling in his lap. 

“Do you want a glass of something too?” Stiles asks.

“Babe,” Derek says in a voice that tells him it’s not the time for the usual “don’t call me babe” response. Stiles swallows it, heart thumping nervously along. “Come sit.”

It’s late. Stiles feels the lateness pressing down on him. He wrings his hands as he walks back to the couch. Derek kisses him when he sits, Stiles can’t quite resist pulling away.

And it’s not about Derek, it’s about the kindness. It’s not about being kissed, it’s about feeling so… unbelievably stressed and worried and upset that he can barely stand the security Derek’s presence fills him with.

“I don’t think you should have a nightcap,” Derek says, showing no offense at being turned away from. 

Stiles stares at him. There’s something here. A catch or a conversation. Something that’s been unsaid between them for awhile that Stiles doesn’t think he wants said…

“Your dad,” Derek continues. “He’s going to be okay, the doctor said so.”

“I know,” Stiles half-whispers. His voice dies out, catching in his chest. He feels his eyes burn. 

“And I know you’re scared.” Derek’s hands close around Stiles’ and pull them apart to interlock their fingers together. Stiles squeezes his hands, Derek squeezes back. “I think sometimes you reach for a drink when you should just… sit with things.”

Stiles wants to pull away again but he doesn’t this time. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” Derek asks, voice level and eyes locked onto his. Stiles squirms under his gaze. “It just seems like that to me, I may be wrong. But am I?”

“Are you saying I’m an alcoholic?” Stiles asks.

“I’m asking you if you think you are.”

“No. No, it’s not like that. I know what being an addict is like and this is like… not like that. You know how many normal people just want a drink to deal with shit sometimes? Like so many. I’m like that.”

Derek nods. “I drank too much when we weren’t together. Way too much. I think I drink too much still sometimes and just blame it on the lifestyle. Never would have called myself an alcoholic though.”

“Okay, what are you getting at then?”

He shrugs. He can be so irritating sometimes, but Stiles feels a swell of affection for him along with the frustration.

“I think it’s time for bed, not for a drink, that’s it,” he says. “And if you need a distraction other than sleep, figure one out.”

“Sex?”

Derek rolls his eyes. He stands up, letting their still-clasped hands disconnect. “You coming?”

“I don’t know am I?” Stiles asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Not unless by your own hand, Stiles,” Derek deadpans back. “It’s late. Your dad’s surgery is early tomorrow.”

Surgery. Stiles feels sick with worry. Derek must read it on his face because he holds his hand out and pulls Stiles up to his feet and into a hug.

Stiles lets Derek lead him to their room to get ready for bed. Derek hands him his toothbrush, toothpaste ready, and watches him out of the corner of his eye as they brush. Stiles rolls his eyes at him, mouth full of foam. 

“Your dad’s gonna be fine,” Derek says after rinsing his mouth. “Routine procedure, good surgeon, no need to worry.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a shrug.

They get in bed, Derek leans close and kisses him goodnight. Stiles stares at the ceiling, too wired to close his eyes. Derek seems to fall asleep immediately. 

No drink…

No cigarette either, Stiles is truly trying to give those up. 

His fingers work along a crease in the top hem of the sheet, anxiously taking in the familiar texture. His mind whirs.

He can’t lose his dad. He absolutely can’t. 

“Can I ask you something?” Derek asks, voice clear as it cuts through the dark and anxiety.

“Sure.”

Derek pauses. “If this isn’t the right time, we don’t have to talk about it…” He rolls onto his side to face Stiles. “I guess I’m just curious.”

“About?”

Derek pauses again, searching for words. “Your overdose,” he says softly.

“Oh, that.” Stiles tries for blasé.

“Mm.”

Stiles’ turn to pause. Derek waits.

“What about it?” Stiles asks, sounding and feeling small.

“What happened? How’d you get there?”

Stiles mulls over the question while so many emotions burn themselves out in him - flashes of shame come and go, anger comes and goes, bone deep sadness, the ghost of loneliness… It takes a while for the words to come to him.

“I don’t remember much about that tour,” Stiles confesses. “I drank heavily for awhile and then that wasn’t enough and weed wasn’t enough so I tried other things. I had Xanax prescribed to me by my shrink, so it started there. And then someone somewhere suggested adding oxy to the cocktail for the high and…” Stiles trails off. “What I should have done was been honest with my therapist and kept up with the sessions and gotten into boxing or something.” He stares at the dark ceiling. Derek’s breath brushes his cheek. His eyes burn. “I missed you. And I loved you and I was so heartbroken. But I was stupid to let myself succumb to that. And besides, I don’t think it was only you. Once I got to a certain point, it was about the high anyway. Should have been honest with the therapist…” 

“Honest how?” Derek finally asks.

“I was depressed but I didn’t want to say it. Diagnosed me with anxiety. Which, to be honest, is fair. But… the depression… I’d never felt that bad ever in my life, you know? But I didn’t feel like I was allowed to be depressed.”

“You were,” Derek assures him. “You don’t need permission.”

“Ah yes, learned that in treatment.” Stiles huffs a humorless laugh. 

Derek shifts closer under the sheets. He rests his hand on Stiles’ stomach. The warmth spreads through Stiles and he holds onto that feeling.

“The OD though,” Stiles says. “I just… took too much. Finally pushed my limit too far. Scott found me, I know you know some of this. But. Scott found me and… I don’t know how long it’s going to take for me to stop feeling so bad about that.”

“But he saved you.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you want to be saved?”

“Probably not but I retroactively always have.” Stiles shifts uncomfortably. “I’m thankful he saved me. I just… feel so bad I had to be saved.”

“You saved me,” Derek tells him. “When we met. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t.”

Stiles lets a burning tear slip down his cheek before rubbing his eyes clear with a blanket. “It was an honor, Derek.”

Derek moves closer again, his upper arm lying over Stiles’ torso and his forearm running up Stiles’ ribs. Derek kisses his neck. “I’m sure Scott would say the same. Nothing wrong with needing to be saved.”

“You’re right.” He chews on his lip. He focuses on Derek’s breath against his neck and his arm so secure over him. “Hurt is helpful,” Stiles says. “I’ve had my current therapist since rehab. He always says that. Um, all I remember from the time leading up to the OD was just… feeling absolutely nothing. And I’d felt like nothing without the drugs before and I hadn’t wanted to feel numb again so I kept taking more and more trying to get the happy, good high feeling back and it didn’t come until it was too late.” He sniffs, needing to pause. 

Derek stays quiet. 

“So uh, when I was in the hospital before rehab, going through withdrawals and feeling like shit and all I just pretended I couldn’t talk when people came to see me because I didn’t know what to say and I felt like if I opened my mouth I’d just lose it. But eventually I just. Lost it. Allison was visiting and she’d been trying to talk about something positive everyday she came and I just told her I loved her and I felt like everything in me broke and I just cried for hours and she held me through it. Feeling that… awful, shitty, hell on earth feeling while being loved on really just… When I got to rehab, I did the work. I wanted to do the work because I wanted to be better. Recovery is hard. That’s my overdose story.” 

He ends his story in an abrupt rush of words, ready to be done with it. He clears his throat and turns his head toward Derek’s to kiss his hair. He feels so stiff and wound up. Derek is so loose beside him. Warm and comfortable. 

Derek lifts his head to murmur an “I love you” against his lips. Stiles feels himself relax a little. 

“Let’s stop drinking together,” Derek says after Stiles’ breathing had lengthened and his heart has calmed. “It’s unhealthy anyway.”

Stiles surprises himself by laughing. In the place irritation should settle, Stiles only feels love. “You’re such a manipulative asshole,” he teases. “All that for this?”

“All that because I wanted to know that part of you and understand it because I love you,” Derek corrects. “And I’ll do anything to help you stay sober and healthy. Me and your dad and the band and everyone who loves you wants to see you sober and healthy.”

“Okay,” Stiles says softly. He stares up at the ceiling a little longer, revelling in the warmth of Derek’s body and the way he makes him feel. Eventually, he turns within his arms to lay face-to-face with him. “Thanks.”

Stiles can see Derek crook a smile even in the dark. “Anything.”

“Can we get Hank’s before heading over to the hospital? It’ll have to be early…”

“Of course.”

“Something greasy?”

“As greasy as you want.”

Stiles ducks forward to smile against Derek’s cheek. “You don’t have to sit around with me all day.”

“Yes, I do.” 

Stiles must fall asleep like that because he wakes up with his face in Derek’s neck. The weight of Derek’s arm leaves when he reaches back to reach for the blaring alarm clock. 

The morning goes by in an anxious blur, from getting ready and picking up Hank’s and settling in at the hospital. Talia Hale drops by with flowers. And then his father is out and recovering and just fine.

As they walk back out to the car, Stiles chews on the fact that he just lost a day to anxiety and how thankful he is that everything went fine. He hands the car keys to Derek because he’s too tired to drive. 

“I feel like this is something only a dick would say in this circumstance, but…” Derek starts. He looks over at Stiles to read his mood. Stiles rolls his eyes back and waits. “Do you regret not having that drink last night?”

Stiles laughs. “No, I don’t. I get it, I get it. We’re quitting the sauce.”

“Together.”

“Together,” Stiles says with a nod. “Sparkling apple cider from here on out.” Derek frowns a little and Stiles laughs again. “We got this.”

“Yeah, we do.”


End file.
